


i'd catch you if you fall

by hollyhobbit101



Series: Gendrya fics [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, BAMF Arya Stark, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Faceless Arya, Fix-It of Sorts, Gendry is a Baratheon, Hurt Arya, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Episode: s08e05 The Bells, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2020-03-07 01:33:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18863038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollyhobbit101/pseuds/hollyhobbit101
Summary: Just over a week after Gendry arrives in Storm's End, a girl he thought he'd never see again rides up to his gates astride a white horse. He almost can't believe what he's seeing, but then her eyes meet his and he knows that she is real.orgendry and arya will always find each other





	1. ravens

**Author's Note:**

> This follows canon in that the Battle of King's Landing happened as in the show, but it's completely non-canon from there because I don't trust D&D to give these two the ending they deserve.
> 
> Title from Without Me by Halsey

Barely a week after Gendry arrives in Storm's End to a sea of confused and curious faces, his new maester comes to him with a raven from King's Landing. He's ashamed to ask the maester to read it for him, but there was little need for a blacksmith's apprentice to know more than basic words and it has never served him ill before. He supposes he'll have to learn now that he's a lord, but there will be time enough for that after.

The raven tells him that the war is won, Cersei and the Kingslayer dead, King's Landing razed to the ground. He feels a pang of something like sorrow at the news; he has always hated that stinking shithole of a city, but it had been his home for many years, and that has to mean something. Queen Daenerys does not yet sit the Iron Throne, but Gendry supposes that there is no more throne now that the Red Keep has well and truly fallen.

This information means little to him, however, as it does not give him the answers he desperately wants. Of course it doesn't - this is hastily penned, the kind of note that would have been sent to all the loyal lords and ladies of Westeros. Even so, he can't help but feel disappointed when there is no mention of Arya. He knows she would have been aiming for Cersei; he's heard her repeat her list so many times that he feels it's ingrained in his memory as much as it is in hers. He hopes she is still alive, but he cannot keep himself from imagining her body laying broken and bloody in the ruins of King's Landing, or unrecognisable for burns made by dragonfire.

The thought makes him feel ill, so he brusquely thanks the maester and strides out of the room, barely conscious of where he's going. Somehow, he manages to find his way to his chambers, so he lies down on the bed and closes his eyes, trying to remember her smile and her beautiful grey eyes and the way she had looked hovering over him that blessed night they'd spent together. It works, for a time, but all too soon he's back to seeing her dead, and a heaviness settles deep in his heart. He eventually drifts off into an uneasy sleep, fraught with nightmares of dragonfire and death.

* * *

Two days later, he receives another raven, this one from Jon Snow. It differs from the other in that it is clearly intended for him alone, and, as the maester reads, Gendry begins to suspect that not even the Dragon Queen knows of its existence.

 _You have heard what happened to King's Landing,_ Snow writes. _The Queen is not being well received and even those in her own ranks are beginning to have doubts. My father raised me to be honourable and just, and I cannot stand by and watch her burn cities to the ground. Some of our men died because of her dragon, and my sister, Arya, was in the city when it fell. We have found no trace of her, alive or otherwise_ _-_

At the mention of Arya, Gendry feels like the world has turned upside down. He staggers, just barely hearing the maester's voice falter and stop as he collapses into a nearby chair.

_Arya. No trace._

She can't be gone. He doesn't want to believe it, but Snow's words ring through his head and he realises that his worst fears might be coming true after all. Arya, buried under mountains of rubble that won't be moved until she's cold and rotting. Arya, her skin red and hair gone so she's no longer recognisable to even her own family. Arya, dead.

He closes his eyes and leans his head in his hands, trying to calm his breathing. He hears a voice somewhere in the distance, or perhaps not so far away because it comes again, clearer this time, "My Lord?"

He jerks his head up, seeing the maester watching him in concern. "Are you unwell, my Lord?" he asks, and Gendry mentally berates himself for acting so foolishly. He shakes his head and waves for the maester to continue reading, which he does after a moment's hesitation.

_Our fathers were once great friends. I only ask that that alliance continues, in the hope that the worst can be avoided. Jon Snow, Warden of the North._

It takes a long time for the implications of Snow's words to fully sink in, and when they do, Gendry is shocked at what he is suggesting. It's on the tip of his tongue to say no; Daenerys made him who he is now, and she can unmake him just as easily.

And yet. He's never really wanted a lordship and his people barely know him; they wouldn't care if he left just as suddenly as he arrived. Besides, he had told Arya once that none of it meant anything without her, and her loss is hurting him in ways he never knew he could hurt. He wishes she were here, but that's not possible anymore. He'll never see her again.

The realisation hits him harder the second time around, so he sends the maester away and leaves for the forge. He likes working there, rules be damned; the sound of a hammer on steel is the only thing he knows now, the only thing that might keep his mind distracted. Sparks fly and metal sings, and Gendry images that he is killing every person who had a hand in her death.

* * *

He is woken one morning, not long after Snow's raven, by a knocking at his door. He climbs out of bed and opens it, raising an eyebrow at the young boy stood outside.

"There's someone at the gate, m’Lord," he says quietly, his hands twisting together nervously. "Says she knows you, and that she has to speak with you."

"Who is it?" Gendry asks, frowning. He has received no message of a visitor, and can't think of anyone who might be coming unannounced.

"She said her name was...Arya Stark, m’Lord," the boy replies, and Gendry think his heart might have stopped. He stares at the boy, searching for any sign of a lie, but he can see none, only fear and anxiety. Of course, Gendry's never been good at discerning lie from truth, but something in him is telling him to believe the boy, impossible though it sounds.

He pulls on his doublet and boots, then runs through the castle, nearly knocking the poor boy over as he passes him. His heart is beating fast in his chest and time blurs into nothing as he heads to the gate. The group of men gathered there part as he arrives, revealing a white horse, its rider stood next to it, and it is _her_. Her clothes are covered in a fine film of dust and her hair is matted and wild, but Gendry think he would know her anywhere.

He approaches slowly, staring at her in shock as it settles in that she is _alive_. More than that, she is here, with him at Storm's End, and he almost can't believe it. Then her eyes meet his and, perhaps for the first time since they met, they are open and honest, and Gendry's heart breaks a little as he sees how exhausted she is.

"Arya," he breathes as he reaches her, his hand hovering just above her shoulder. He wants to hold her close to him, to kiss her and tell her how lost he's been without her, but he manages to refrain himself. She smiles at him, a brittle and broken thing, then her knees buckle, and Gendry only just catches her before she hits the ground. He signals to a couple of his men to carry her inside, then asks for the maester to be found and brought to him.

"Send a raven to Jon Snow, and one to Lady Sansa at Winterfell," he asks the maester. "Tell them that their sister is alive and safe at Storm's End. And tell Jon Snow..." He hesitates, then thinks of the girl sleeping only a few rooms away, the girl he has almost lost so many times over. Resolves settles hard in his mind and he turns to the maester with a grim look. "Tell him that I accept."

The maester's eyes widen at that, but he nods and heads off to do as Gendry asked. Gendry closes his eyes and breathes out slowly, clenching his fists at his sides to stop his hands from shaking. Opening his eyes, he turns and heads in the direction of Arya's rooms, silently swearing that no one will ever take her away from him again.

And gods help the person who tries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic wasn't intended as a multi-chapter but I guess it is now. It shouldn't be too long, but I haven't quite figured out yet how many chapter there'll be. Thank you all for reading!


	2. the banners

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya wakes later that evening and Gendry rushes to her side, desperate to know what happened to her in King's Landing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so, so much for the wonderful response to this story! I'm so excited to share the rest of it with you, and I hope you continue enjoying it.
> 
> Updates will be weekly to the best of my ability, although they may increase in frequency once my exams are over.

Arya wakes later that evening. Gendry's just concluding a meeting with one of the lesser lords of the Stormlands when a clearly distressed maid rushes in, telling him that Arya's awake and demanding to see him. He jumps out of his seat immediately, ignoring the startled protest from the lord, and strides down the hall. He hates that he wasn't there when she woke, but the maester had told him very firmly that Arya needed rest, and he had to fulfil his duties to his people. He'd begrudgingly listened, but his mind had never strayed far from her the entire day.

Arya's sitting up in bed when he enters, dressed in a simple shift. Her face is covered in bruises and she has a bandage wrapped around her forehead, but her eyes are bright and she looks like herself again.

"My Lord," she greets, her mouth quirked up in a teasing smile. Gendry rolls his eyes, the formality sounding strange coming from her lips, but smiles anyway.

"M'lady," he responds, sitting in the chair at her bedside.

She raises her eyebrows disapprovingly. " _My_ Lady," she corrects, smirking at his bewildered expression. "You're a lord now; you'll have to learn how to speak proper."

He laughs, relief bubbling up in his chest. "Aye, I suppose I will. I'll add it to the list; you should have seen the maester's face when he realised I can't read."

She smiles genuinely at that, then a comfortable silence falls between them. Gendry takes solace in the sound of her quiet breathing, in the gentle rise and fall of her chest. In the light of the room, he can see the scars littering her arms more clearly than he did before, and she'll have a rather impressive one on her head once the bandage is removed. His eyes drift unbidden down to her abdomen, to what he knows lies beneath the shift, and he sighs heavily, his good mood dissipating. More than ever, he yearns to know how she came to have these scars, but he knows her well enough by now to realise that she'll only tell him when she wants to, and not a moment before. It frustrates him, but Gendry is a patient man. He can wait.

"I thought I was going to die in that city." Arya's quiet voice shatters the silence, and Gendry's eyes snap back to her face. Her expression is impassive, but her eyes are pained, and his heart aches for her. He starts to reach out to her, but stops himself just in time, not knowing whether his touch would be welcome.

"Arya, what- What happened?" he asks. _What happened to you?_

She seems to hear what he left unspoken, and her gaze goes far away as she speaks. "The Dragon Queen burned the city to ashes. I'd snuck inside with Sandor - the Hound - to kill Cersei, but then the Red Keep started to collapse and he made me see sense. I got out, but the city was just as dangerous. I thought I would die - I _should_ have died."

Gendry opens his mouth to tell her no, but she cuts him off with a stern look and his protests die on his lips. "There was a woman and her daughter," she begins again, much quieter this time. "The woman saved me, and I tried to save her. I found them hiding and I thought I would be able to get them out, so I led them all outside. Then the dragon came, and they died anyway. I don't know why I'm not dead, too."

Her voice trails off as tears begin to track their way down her cheeks. She turns her head away, but Gendry gathers his courage and puts a hand on her cheek, causing her to look back at him. She doesn't draw away from his touch, so he reaches out with his other hand and places it on top of hers.

"It wasn't your fault," he murmurs softly. "No one could have saved them, Arya, not even you, so don't blame yourself."

Her eyes search his face and she opens her mouth as if to say something, but then there's a knock at the door and they jump apart. Arya wipes her face and, just as quickly as it had gone, her mask of carefully controlled neutrality is back. Gendry sighs in annoyance, but gets up and opens the door, revealing the maester.

"A raven, my Lord," he says, bowing his head. "From Jon Snow."

Behind him, Gendry hears Arya sitting up straighter, her attention won, but he focuses back on the maester, waiting expectantly for him to read it. The maester shifts uncomfortably, his eyes darting between Arya and Gendry.

"Perhaps it would be better to read it privately, my Lord," he suggests. Gendry just rolls his eyes.

"I'm sure whatever is contained in the letter will be of interest to her as well," he points out, and the maester has no choice but to concede the point.

_Lord Baratheon,_

_Thank you for agreeing to help. We'll need all the men we can get if we cannot solve this situation soon. And thank you for telling me that my sister is with you at Storm's End, although I do wonder why she travelled to you rather than returning to our lines. Perhaps she can send me a raven of her own to explain._

_Be ready._

_Jon Snow_

When the maester finishes reading, Arya gets up from bed and snatches the paper from his hands. He turns to protest to Gendry, but he just ushers him out and closes the door, watching Arya in amusement as she reads the message, pacing around the room.

"He's right, you know," Gendry says. "You should have gone back to the camp rather than coming here."

"What does he mean?" she asks, ignoring Gendry completely. She stares up at him with a challenge in her eyes, and Gendry swallows hard under the intensity of her gaze. "What agreement?"

"I received a letter from your brother just before you arrived," he explains. "He asked that we continue the alliance of our fathers, and said he was...worried about the new Queen."

He sees the moment understanding dawns on Arya, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. "And you accepted?"

"Of course, I- _Arya,_ " he protests. "Why wouldn't I?"

She folds her arms across her chest and shrugs. " _She's_ the reason you're a lord. Why wouldn't you be loyal to her?"

"You think I care about all this?" he demands, scowling at her. "My whole life, I've wanted a name to claim as my own, but I don't care about the rest of it. The castle, the lordship, all of it - it doesn't matter. None of it does, not unless -" He stops himself abruptly, before he can make the same mistake twice, but he knows she heard him anyway. She doesn't say anything, just continues staring at him, and so Gendry leaves the room, cursing himself and this girl who both infuriates and entrances him in equal measure.

* * *

He doesn't see her again until the next afternoon, when he is receiving his subjects in the Great Hall. There aren't many; most of the people here are still getting used to even having a lord, as Storm's End has been unoccupied since Renly rode off to war and never came back. Even so, they come, and the maester assures him that the numbers will increase with time. Gendry find himself both dreading and awaiting that time.

After the last one has been dealt with - a man whose crops have stopped growing as winter creeps south - Gendry gets up to leave, only then seeing her lounging against a pillar.

"How long you been there?" he calls out, raising an eyebrow.

"Long enough," she responds, pushing away from the pillar and walking towards him, boots clicking on the stone floor. She's wearing new clothes, he notes, though he doesn't know where she's found them from. Probably one of the servants fetched them for her, as they've been doing for him.

"You're good at this, you know," she tells him, stopping a few feet away from him. He feels a sudden burst of pride at her praise, though he tries to shove it down.

"Oh yeah?" he challenges. "And you think that why?"

She rolls her eyes in exasperation, though Gendry thinks he can detect a hint of fondness underneath it all. "I used to watch my father doing this all the time," she says. "I know what a good lord looks like when I see one. Besides, your people like you. It's obvious."

"They barely know me," he counters.

"Yes they do. You're not some fancy lord who's known nothing but this. You're lowborn, just like them, which means they trust you more."

The surety in her voice startles Gendry, and he can barely believe what she's saying. He doesn't think he's doing a good job - how can he be, when he can't read or write, when he relies on his maester for just about everything?

"I- You- What-" he stammers, but he's saved by one of the men coming in with a scroll. He groans internally at the sight - he's had enough ravens in the past week to last a lifetime - but Arya's striding over to grab the letter before the man can even get a word out. She breaks the seal and scans it quickly; when she looks back at him again, her face is grim but her eyes are alight with something like excitement.

She hands it over, and he recognises Snow's writing immediately, but the three words on the page mean nothing to him. He looks at her expectantly, and Gendry's heart sinks with dread as she reads the message.

_Call the banners._


	3. ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The journey to King's Landing is not a long one, but it is a sombre one. Not silent, never silent, but the men all go quiet when they see the ashes coating the walls and the jagged remains of buildings stabbing upwards into the sky. It looks like Harrenhal, Gendry recalls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been a couple of weeks since I last posted, exams have been keeping me busy. Not long to go, though, so updates should come quicker.
> 
> You may also notice that I've updated the tags to include Major Character Death - I promise that this is neither Gendry nor Arya. These two deserve better.

Calling the banners is a longer process than Gendry had thought it would be. He'd sent ravens to all Houses who were supposedly sworn to him, asking them to come to Storm's End and ride with him. Only five had responded positively - Tarth, Meadows, Selmy, Swann and Buckler, his maester had said. The rest either refused to be led by a bastard or didn't respond at all. Perhaps a better lord would take action, but, in truth, Gendry does not blame them. Really, he should have asked their allegiance sooner, but he has barely been in the Stormlands two weeks. He has no right to their loyalty yet.

It does not take long for the five Houses to arrive and, as soon as the last - Selmy - enters the castle, a feast is called for that night. The preparations overwhelm Gendry somewhat; it is different to the hustle and bustle of King's Landing, where he only had to concentrate on the steel before him. Here, it seems there are a thousand different tasks that all need his attention, and he wishes he were able to escape it all, if only for a moment.

He doesn't see Arya until the feast itself. He's barely seen her at all, in fact, since the day he got Jon's raven, though it's not for lack of trying. He'd wanted to offer her a tour of the castle, but he supposes that she probably knows it better by now than he ever will. She grew up in a place like this, and she's likely spent the last few days investigating every corridor, mapping out its every shadow. Perhaps he ought to be the one asking _her_ for a tour.

He thinks she'd be amused if she could see him now. The servants have dressed him in his finest leathers, and he's receiving lessons on proper lordly etiquette in preparation for the evening. He wasn't exaggerating when he told her he couldn't even use a fork, and now he has to cope with three of them, all having different purposes. It's exasperating, to say the least; no wonder everyone else is starving when all these lords and ladies need about twenty pieces of silverware each. Nevertheless, he listens, and learns what he can, hoping that he doesn't make a fool of himself when the feast comes, almost praying that it doesn't come at all.

But come it does. Gendry's seated at the head of the table, the five lords gathered around him. Their retinues are scattered around the room, and Gendry doesn't miss the daughters and granddaughters and nieces they've all brought along to try and catch his fancy. He knows Arya has seen them too, from her place in the hall, and she quirks a teasing eyebrow at him when he meets her gaze. He flushes, embarrassed, and almost misses his mouth with the soup. No-one notices, fortunately, all too focused on their own meals, so Gendry swears not to look at Arya again for the duration of the feast.

Lord Meadows addresses him first, and Gendry almost misses it, focused as he is on not spilling his meal. "Strange, to see a Baratheon in Storm's End again," he says, seemingly casual, but Gendry is not stupid; he hears the scathing undertones. "I confess, everyone thought you'd all died out, and yet here you sit. You have the look."

Gendry makes a non-committal noise. He never knows how to respond when people tell him how much like Robert he looks; he can't be sure whether it is a compliment or a joke.

"Yes, well, do you want to tell us why you've called us all here, _Lord_ Baratheon?" Selwyn Tarth cuts an impressive figure, old though he is, and Gendry feels intimidated in his presence. He glares at Gendry, his eyes seeming to assess whether or not he is worth bothering with. Gendry finds himself wanting this man's approval, knowing that his cause is lost without it.

"King's Landing -"

"Is ash and rubble," Tarth interrupts, glare deepening. "We can't wage war on a dead city, boy."

"No," Gendry concedes, feeling a pang of sorrow. "But war is not what I'm asking. At least, not yet," he amends, seeing the lords ready to argue again. "I had a raven from Jon Snow, the Warden of the North, who asked me to support him with any men I could. He didn't say why, but I know it's something to do with the new Queen. I want to honour the friendship of our fathers by joining him, that's why I called you all."

There's a silence following his words, and Gendry wonders if he's somehow fucked it all up. He wouldn't be surprised.

Eventually, Tarth turns back to him and says, "That's all well and good, lad, but how can we send men up to King's Landing with you when we don't even know what we're going there for?"

Gendry sighs impatiently. "You all know what happened to that shit-stinking city. You all know how she burned it and all its people to nothing. I understand why you are reluctant to go, my lords, I don't want to march there either. But I've fought with Jon Snow before, and, if he says he needs us, then that's good enough for me."

It takes him a few seconds after he stops speaking to realise the entire hall has fallen silent. He feels a flush begin to creep up his cheeks and almost hangs his head in shame, remembering only at the last second that he needs to look confident in front of these lords. They're all watching him closely and he can almost feel their judgement as the silence stretches out uncomfortably.

Gendry does not know how long has passed before the lords begin nodding.

"Alright," Lord Buckler says. "Let it not be said that House Buckler are not men of their word. We'll ride with you, Lord Baratheon."

The other four lords agree, Gendry breathing out a sigh of relief when they do. He's aware that he doesn't fully have their trust yet, but he hopes he's proved himself even a small bit worthy of it. As the other men begin discussing tactics and positioning, Gendry dares another glance over at Arya. Her face is blank, as usual, but a small smile plays at her lips when she catches his gaze, and he feels a sense of pride swell in him at her approval.

* * *

The journey to King's Landing is not a long one, less than a week, but the camp is on the opposite side of the city to the one facing Storm's End, so they have to travel all around the border. It's a sombre journey; not silent, but the men all quiet during the ride past King's Landing. There's a thick coat of ash lining the walls, and the jagged tips of buildings jut into the sky. It somewhat resembles Harrenhal, Gendry recalls, and he tells Arya this when she rides up next to him. She doesn't say anything, but stares tight-lipped up at the destroyed city, and he thinks she's perhaps remembering the same thing.

Or perhaps not; she still hasn't told him everything that happened that day. He can't imagine what it must be like, to see a city collapsing before your eyes, to have to run for your life even as fire rained down and people died around you. He's sure Arya's seen plenty evil since they parted those years ago, but he can't help but wonder if, somehow, the destruction of King's Landing was the worst.

He wants to ask her, but she's gone from his side when he turns to do so. She does that; flits around the line, disappears wherever she wants. Sometimes she'll ride silently next to him for the entire day, and other times he won't see her at all. It's probably for the best that she's gone now. Gendry thinks she wouldn't answer him anyway, even if he did try and ask.

* * *

When they finally get to the camp boundaries, they’re stopped by a group of Unsullied, glaring at them suspiciously from under their helmets.

“Who are you?” one asks, hand tightening around his spear. Gendry swallows nervously, but Arya rides forward before he can say anything.

“I’m Arya Stark,” she says. “This is Lord Gendry Baratheon of Storm’s End. Jon Snow sent me to bring reinforcements to help the Queen.”

A lie, but told so masterfully that Gendry almost believes it himself. The Unsullied exchange a look, then point to Gendry and Arya.

“You follow us. The rest stay.”

Gendry looks at Arya, and she inclines her head to motion him forwards. He takes a thankful breath, then motions to his men to stay put, the gesture feeling unnatural. It’s strange, being at the head of an almost-army, and he’s constantly surprised when the men actually do what he asks. He supposes he’ll get used to it but, privately, he hopes he’ll never have to.

He and Arya dismount to walk into camp, handing off their horses to two of Gendry’s bannermen. He wants to let her take the lead - this is her world, after all, but he knows that would look strange, so he settles with matching her pace. They’re led to a group of tents with the Stark banners flying over them, men milling about all around them. The Northerners stare with barely disguised distaste at the Unsullied, but their gaze changes to something like surprise when they set eyes on Gendry and Arya. He shifts uncomfortably, but soon enough they’re stood outside the largest tent, Arya striding inside without hesitation.

He follows her inside, suddenly nervous as Jon Snow and Davos turn to look at them. As Jon registers who they are, he motions for the Unsullied to leave, waiting until they’re gone to rush forward and envelop Arya in a hug.

Gendry turns away, feeling as though he’s intruding on a private moment. When the pair separate, Jon keeps holding Arya’s shoulders, intently scanning her face, clearly noting the new scars on her brow and cheeks.

“What happened?” he breathes.

“Your Queen burned the city,” Arya replies, her voice hard as stone. Jon flinches at that and releases her, turning away and rubbing a hand across his face.

“I’m sorry,” he says eventually. “It wasn’t… The bells rang. That was supposed to be the end of it.”

“That doesn’t matter now,” Arya tells him. “What matters is what we’re going to do about it.”

Jon doesn’t reply, instead turning to Gendry and looking him up and down. “I’m grateful for your support,” he eventually says. “How many men do you have?”

Gendry thinks for a second, trying to remember everything he was told that night they’d all gathered at Storm’s End. “I think… Five Houses pledged their support, and I’ve got some of my own men...so that’s…”

“About 500,” Arya interrupts. Gendry shoots her a grateful look, thankful for her presence more than ever. Jon nods, then leans heavily on the war table everyone is gathered around.

“I don’t know what to do,” he admits, something like defeat bleeding into his voice. “Ned Stark taught me to be honourable and loyal above all else, but how can I do nothing? There were women and children in that city; they’d _surrendered_ …”

He trails off and hangs his head, sighing heavily. Gendry thinks someone should say something, but before anyone in the tent can, another voice interrupts from the entrance.

“There’s only one thing we can do.” Tyrion Lannister strides into the tent, glancing at each of them in turn. Gendry notices that he’s still wearing his Hand of the Queen pin and panic flashes through him; surely he’ll turn them all in to Daenerys as traitors and she’ll get that dragon to burn them all -

Jon looks at Tyrion tiredly. “There has to be something else.”

Tyrion shakes his head sadly. “You love her. I understand; so did I, once. But you cannot deny that she has gone too far. Burning King’s Landing to ash wasn’t enough - you saw what she did yesterday.”

Gendry frowns. “What happened yesterday?” he asks, embarrassed when everyone turns to look at him. Tyrion, in particular, surveys him with interest, eyebrows raised.

“The new Lord Baratheon,” he says. “A surprise to see you here; don’t you owe your position to the Queen?”

“Don’t you?” Arya cuts in, glaring at Tyrion. He concedes the point, tilting his head in assent.

“Yes,” he murmurs. “I suppose we’ve all had cause to reconsider.” His gaze flicks between Gendry and Arya in a way that makes Gendry uncomfortable, afraid that maybe he knows everything that is - and isn’t - between them. He doesn’t get a chance to say anything, though, as Jon clears his throat and stands straighter.

“Yesterday,” he begins, levelling his gaze at Gendry. “Daenerys brought a group of surviving Lannister soldiers to the city entrance. We were forced to watch as she burned them to death.”

Gendry’s mouth drops open, but he can’t find any words. Fortunately, Arya comes to his rescue again, stepping forward and staring at Jon challengingly.

“He’s right,” she says, inclining her head towards Tyrion. “She knows who you are, which means you’ll always be a threat to her anyway. There’s only one thing to do.”

Jon looks pained, but Gendry just frowns, confused at Arya’s words. It’s clear that Davos feels the same, as he steps forward.

“Pardon, but might I ask what my Lady means?” he asks, although he’s looking at Jon, who sighs tiredly.

“What I’m about to tell you does not leave this tent,” he warns, eyeing Gendry and Davos. They both nod. “I’m not Ned Stark’s bastard. I’m the legitimate son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. Lyanna ran away with him, and they married in secret in Dorne, where she gave birth to a son. Ned Stark promised to keep him safe, so he raised him as a bastard.”

Davos’s eyes widen almost comically. “Which means that you’re -”

“Don’t say it,” Jon pleads. “I don’t want it.”

Tyrion steps further into the tent then, looking up at Jon intently. “You would do well on the throne,” he says. “People trust you. You were Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, you were King in the North -”

“Aye, I was,” Jon snaps, turning on Tyrion. Gendry takes a step back, startled at Jon’s sudden outburst; he’d come to know him as a normally calm man. “I was Lord Commander; my men killed me for it. I was King in the North, and I gave up the Northern crown - I gave up _the North_. I don’t belong on a throne.”

“Then who?” Tyrion argues.

Jon looks at Gendry, and he feels an unexplainable churning in his gut. “You’re Robert Baratheon’s son. You have the next best claim.”

All eyes turn towards Gendry, but he barely notices. Jon’s words echo in his ears and he feels a wave of shock come over him. “But… I’m just a bastard,” he stammers.

“Not anymore,” Tyrion says, looking at him with even more interest. “It could work.”

“No,” Gendry says, more forcefully this time. Anger wells up in him; how could they expect him to rule the entire fucking country, when he’s only been a lord for a few weeks. He opens his mouth to go on, but Davos interrupts before he can.

“We can argue about this later,” he says, and Gendry is grateful for his sense. He thinks he would have said something he’d regret if he’d been allowed to continue speaking.

“What matters now is how we’re going to proceed.”

There’s a silence following Davos’s words, all of them processing what needs to happen. No one has openly said it yet, but Gendry understands the implications.

They’re going to kill the Queen.

Eventually, Arya speaks. “I can do it,” she says, and Gendry stares at her in shock.

“I’d be the last to doubt your skill, my Lady,” Davos says. “But how do you plan on getting past all her Unsullied and Dothraki and avoiding capture after it’s done?”

Arya smirks. “Have you begun clearing the dead yet?” she asks Jon.

Jon blinks in surprise. “Yes, but I don’t-”

“Are there any bodies that still have recognisable faces?”

“Yes, but-”

“Then that’s all I need.”

 _“Arya,”_ Jon says, clearly as confused as Gendry. “What do you mean?”

Arya sighs, briefly glancing back at Gendry before she turns her attention to Jon again. “When I was...travelling, I joined a group of people called the Faceless Men. They taught me how to take other people’s faces and make them my own.”

“What?” Jon asks, brows furrowing as he stares down at his sister.

 _Cousin_ , Gendry mentally amends, remembering Jon’s earlier revelation.

“Do you remember the death of the Freys?” Arya asks, glancing around at all of them. Gendry doesn’t, but he suspects he is the only one as the others all nod.

“I killed Walder Frey, then used his face to trick all the others into drinking poison.”

Gendry gapes openly at Arya. He’s not sure if he believes her story about swapping faces, but he’s seen stranger things - he was almost torn apart by dead men, for gods’ sakes. He thinks perhaps he should have stopped being so surprised by Arya by now, but she just has that effect on him.

“Are you sure you can do it?” Jon asks, that pained look crossing his face again. Gendry sympathises with him; the last thing _he_ wants to do is send Arya on what is probably a suicide mission, but he knows her enough to realise that she won’t back down.

Arya nods, and that seems to be the end of it. Everyone begins to file out of the tent, Arya hanging back to discuss more with Jon, and, after a moment’s hesitation, Gendry follows. He hovers outside for a second, unsure of what to do, before he remembers his men stationed on the outskirts of the camp. He goes to find them, thinking of Arya and this plan the entire way.

* * *

Later that night, when he’s sitting alone in a tent - _his_ tent - the flap opens almost soundlessly and Arya walks in. She doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t need to; the way she’s looking at him tells Gendry all he needs to know. He wants to walk over and accept everything she’s offering, but he manages to hold himself back.

“Is this what I am to you?” he asks instead. “‘I’m going to die tomorrow so let’s fuck’?” Perhaps he should be ashamed at the way he’s talking, but the frustration and anger are more important.

She regards him coolly, raising an eyebrow. “The only person that’s going to die tomorrow is the Dragon Queen,” she says, taking a step closer. Gendry swallows, but stays put.

“How do you know that?” he demands. “How can you?”

“This isn’t the first time I’ve killed someone important,” she says, still far too casual. “I know what I’m doing.”

“I know that, but - _Arya_.” Gendry finally rises from his seat, walking over to her and staring her down. She matches his gaze, and the rage inside him dims. “I don’t want you getting hurt again,” he admits quietly, looking down at the ground.

She raises a hand to his cheek, but he still can’t look at her, doesn’t want to see whatever’s in her eyes. She doesn’t promise him anything, which he’s grateful for; he doesn’t think he could bear it if she said she’d come back and then she didn’t. Instead, she rises on her toes and kisses him gently, her other hand curling around his neck and drawing him down to her. Gendry doesn’t resist, kissing her back, and there’s something bittersweet in the way they come together.

This time isn’t like the last time. It’s slower, softer, more tender, and somehow that makes it all the worse. The way she moves on top of him makes Gendry forget about what’s coming, about what’s already happened, but when it’s over it all comes crashing back, and he stares at her small, silent form until sleep finally claims him, dreading what the morning may bring.


	4. faces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya slips out of Gendry's tent around an hour or so after he has fallen asleep. She is surprised by how much of her wants to stay, but she pushes that impulse down, forcing her feet away from him and towards Jon and the dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! It's been a hot minute, I do apologise for that. This chapter has been a struggle because I don't want to ruin anyone's characters - particularly Dany's - in the same way the show did. Nevertheless, after writing it and having my wonderful betas help iron it out, I am very pleased with the result.
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy the chapter!

Arya slips out of Gendry’s bed an hour or so after he falls asleep. She dresses quietly, sparing one final backwards glance at him before leaving the tent. It’s surprising, how much of her wants to stay, but she knows she can’t let herself give in. She fears that, if she does, she will lose herself all over again, and more than anything she does not want that.

So she leaves, silently stealing through the camp in search of Jon. They’d planned to meet under cover of darkness to retrieve the face; Arya had told him she could do it alone, but he’d insisted on accompanying her. She’d wanted to tell him to stay, more than a little afraid of him seeing who she has truly become and rejecting her for it. But Jon has all of Father’s stubbornness, and so she’d had no choice but to acquiesce.

Instead of Jon, however, she finds Davos, and one look at his face tells her he at least suspects why she’s skulking around the Baratheon encampment. She doesn’t try and lie about it - Gendry’s camp is in the opposite direction from Jon’s to the pile of bodies - though a part of her worries that he might tell Jon, whom she knows would not react favourably.

“Wasn’t expecting to see you here, my Lady,” he comments, but his tone is mild, without accusation. Even so, Arya folds her arms and raises an eyebrow, challenging the old man.

“Could say the same thing about you,” she says, staring him down.

But Davos just chuckles. “I never can sleep the night before a battle.”

Arya frowns. “There won’t be a battle,” she says. “The only person who’s going to die tomorrow is the Dragon Queen.”

It’s the same thing she told Gendry, but Arya feels far less certain than she made out to him. She doesn’t know Daenerys Targaryen well, but it’s clear to anyone with eyes that her followers are wholly devoted to her, and will not take her death kindly.

Davos just smiles, and it reminds Arya all too much of her father. Kind, but sad and weary, as though he’s seen this song played out too many times before. “As you say, my Lady,” he sighs. “I wish you luck, then.”

Arya nods once then strides past him, keeping a careful eye out for any lurking Unsullied, particularly as she gets closer to where she’s meeting Jon. She’s lucky though - she only sees a few who do not see her, and there are none guarding the bodies. Dead men pose no threat, now.

Jon doesn’t hear her approach and he’s startled when she appears next to him. “You have to stop doing that,” he says in mock reproach.

“I’m not doing anything,” she mutters, but she’s barely paying attention to him, her gaze fixed instead on the rows of corpses stacked up in front of her. Some are little more than piles of charred bones, but others are more whole, just like Jon promised.

As she walks down the line, she can feel Jon at her back, watching on nervously. He hadn’t liked this plan of hers, but Arya knows that he is at least partially aware that she is no longer the little girl with whom he played at being knights. She can still remember the look he gave her upon learning she’d been the one to kill the Night King, as though he were seeing her for the first time.

Eventually, she happens across a young girl, perhaps three or four years younger than herself, with a mostly intact face. There are burn marks across her left cheek, but those will only help to deceive the Queen. She carefully turns the girl’s head, checking for any other damage, but there is none that would make her unsuited to Arya’s task. Satisfied, she straightens and beckons Jon over, pointing at the girl.

“This one.”

Jon looks at her apprehensively, then bends and eases the girl’s body over his shoulder, carrying her a short distance away from the other bodies. He sets her down, and Arya crouches at her side, pulling the Valyrian steel dagger from her belt.

“Are you sure you want to watch this?” she asks, glancing up at Jon. He doesn’t reply, but nods grimly, avoiding her gaze in preference to staring at the dead girl’s face. Arya purses her lips, but stays silent, turning back to the body and carefully places the knife on her neck. She takes a deep breath, then makes the first incision, quickly losing herself in the task at hand.

It’s not long before the face is completely removed. Arya stores it in a small sack she’d picked up on the way to the bodies then turns back to Jon, watching his face for any sign of disgust. He won’t meet her eyes, still fixated on the body, and Arya begins to despair.

“Jon,” she says quietly. His head jerks up at the sound of his name, and she’s briefly afraid that he’s going to walk away. But then he finally looks at her and there’s something almost like sympathy in his eyes, so intense that Arya feels uncomfortable under the weight of it. He reaches out and touches her cheek.

“Arya-”

“I did it to survive,” she interrupts.

Jon nods and his hand drops from her face. “I know. I know.” He takes a shuddering breath as his eyes drop to the sack in her hand. “I’m sorry that you had to go through all that.”

“We all went through terrible things.”

“Aye.” Jon sighs, then falls silent, staring off into the distance. Arya shifts nervously, before heading back to the bodies, quickly removing scraps of clothing from various corpses. There isn’t much that’s salvageable, but fortunately enough for her to be able to piece something together. She’s never quite had Sansa’s gift with a needle and thread, but Arya thinks she’ll just about manage.

Once she’s done, she heads back to Jon, noting with alarm the rapidly lightening sky. “Jon,” she says. “We have to go.”

He jerks, startled at her voice, then nods and turns to follow her as they head back to the Stark encampment. Davos is waiting for them in the command tent, and he raises a questioning eyebrow at them when they enter. Jon nods in response, and Arya hefts the clothes and face onto the table, which seems to satisfy his curiosity.

They spend the rest of the night talking in hushed tones over the plan as Arya tries to fit her disguise together. It’s not much, what she ends up with, but it will do. Besides, Daenerys will hardly have time to notice any irregularities before she has Needle in her heart.

She’s ready just as the sun is about to break over the horizon. She slips her makeshift disguise on, taking care to make sure her weapons are completely concealed under the fabric. Then, turning to Jon, she pulls out the dead girl’s face, looking between it and him anxiously.

“You might want to leave,” she suggests. She wants to put it on before leaving the tent - less chance of getting caught - but she also doesn’t want Jon to see this side of her more than he already has.

But he just sets his jaws and shakes his head, grey eyes betraying his anxiety. Arya sighs, but raises the face to hers anyway, putting it on easily, as though she’d never left the House. She looks back at Jon through the girl’s eyes, and she hates the horror she sees on his face. She understands, though. It had horrified her too, once, but she’d been a girl then. Now she is No One.

Jon hugs her before she leaves, although she’s sure it is strange for him, holding her when she is not Arya Stark. He smiles when he pulls away, nodding at her encouragingly. She nods back, then darts out of the tent, blending in with the few Northerners who have already woken. None of them give her a second glance, but she pulls her hood up over her head as she gets closer to Daenerys’s camp.

It’s not long before she sees the Targaryen banners flying high, announced by sudden hordes of Dothraki and Unsullied. Arya knows that Daenerys has less than half her original army - probably less than a quarter, as the Dothraki were all but wiped out at Winterfell - but they are still a sizeable force.

She’s been mostly keeping to the shadows, but once she’s near the heart of the camp, she pulls her hood down and steps into plain view, drawing her shoulders in to seem smaller and scared. At the corners of her mind, she remembers the heat of dragonfire, the terror of oncoming death, the lick of flames searing her skin. Arya is not sure whether they are the girl’s memories, or her own.

It does not take long before a hand lands on her shoulder, forcibly turning her to face its owner. An Unsullied stares down at her, eyes glaring out from behind his helmet, and Arya winces as he tightens his grip.

“Who are you?” he barks, and Arya drops her gaze to the dirt. She doesn’t respond, prompting him to shake her and repeat the question. She forces tears to her eyes and looks up at the Unsullied again.

“The Queen,” she whispers. The dead girl’s voice is high and trembling, with a Fleabottom accent, not unlike Ser Davos’s. “I need to see the Queen.”

The Unsullied glares harder and, for a moment, Arya thinks he’s just going to march her straight to the cells. But then he says something in Valyrian to a companion, who grabs her other arm and begins dragging her in the direction of what must be Daenerys’s tent. Arya allows herself a small measure of satisfaction that the plan has worked, but makes certain to keep her mask from slipping, maintaining the image of a frightened peasant girl from the slums of King’s Landing.

She’s unceremoniously shoved into the tent, the two Unsullied still keeping hold of her. The inside is huge, the majority taken up by a large table containing a detailed map of Westeros. Arya tries to study it discreetly, but her attention is soon drawn by movement in her periphery.

“My Queen,” the Unsullied to her left says. “We found this one in the camp. Should we put her with the other prisoners?”

Daenerys walks closer, surveying Arya coldly. She is just as beautiful as Arya remembers, but there is a new light in her eyes, one that speaks all too plainly of victory. Then, she smiles, a chilling and calculating thing, and looks to her men.

“Leave her with me,” she orders. The two Unsullied hesitate, but Daenerys’s tone hold no room for argument, so they bow to their queen and exit the tent, leaving Arya alone with her. Arya wonders at that, suspicious of how easily Daenerys had fallen into this trap, but she brushes her concerns aside, focusing on completing her task.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she whispers, staring at the floor.

“You come from the city?” Daenerys asks.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Arya says, the lies coming easy to her lips. “I lost my family when I hid from y- from the dragon, and I haven’t been able to find them. I thought -”

“What is your name?” Daenerys interrupts, turning to pour herself some wine. Arya fingers Needle under her cloak, but she holds herself back. _Not yet._

“Mercy, Your Grace.”

“Mercy.” Daenerys hums, as if in amusement. Then she turns, and locks eyes with Arya, and there’s something cruel and triumphant in them. “Is that what you’re calling it?”

Arya freezes, dread stealing over her. “Your Grace?” she stammers, but she realises that the pretense is useless. Somehow, impossibly, she knows.

Daenerys smiles coldly. “I may have lost my Master of Whispers, but that does not mean I am blind to what happens in my own camp. I knew it was only a matter of time before my Hand and Jon Snow betrayed me again, then Lord Baratheon arrived with 500 men I don’t recall asking for. And now you. I have been avoiding assassins since I was a child; do not insult me by thinking I would fall for your tricks.”

Arya glares at Daenerys, but tightens her grip on Needle, readying herself for her opportunity. So, the Queen knows about their plan. That doesn’t matter. She will still die the same whether she knows or not.

“Come now, Night King-slayer,” Daenerys mocks, stepping closer. “Shall we end this?”

At the sound of the nickname, Arya sees red. Daenerys is too close now for Needle, so she grabs the Valyrian dagger instead, ripping her mask off and launching herself at Daenerys with a yell. It’s almost poetic, she thinks absently, that this fire queen shall die in the same way as the Night King.

A look of fear flashes over Daenerys’s face, but just before Arya can plunge the dagger into her heart, a strong hand grips her wrist and drags her away from the Queen. Arya fights against it, but she can’t break free, and soon her arms are pinned behind her back, the dagger lying forgotten on the ground. She struggles against her captor again, but suddenly there’s a knife at her throat so she stills, seething as Daenerys comes towards her.

Daenerys puts a hand to her cheek, and it takes everything in Arya not to jerk away from the touch. She smirks triumphantly, then her expression turns cold again as she turns her gaze to the Unsullied holding Arya.

“Take her away,” she says, before switching to Valyrian. Arya does not understand what she says, but she manages to catch Jon’s name, and Gendry’s, dread and rage filling her at the thought of what Daenerys is going to do to them. She tries lunging at Daenerys once more, but the grip the Unsullied has on her is too strong.

Powerless, Arya is marched to the outskirts of the camp, where there is nothing but a single pole sticking up out of the ground. The Unsullied take Needle from her belt and she is forced to the dirt, rope being wrapped tightly around her whole body, binding her in place. She strains against the bonds, but the rope is thick and heavy, and she can barely move an inch. She slams her head back against the pole, then jerks it up in surprise when a short laugh rings around her.

Daenerys Targaryen strides towards her, smiling in faint amusement at Arya’s predicament. Arya wonders if Daenerys is just going to kill her now, but she decides that that is not her way of doing things.

“Growing up in Essos, I heard tell of people who could change their face at will,” Daenerys says. “I believed it impossible, as a girl, but most people believed the return of dragons was impossible, too.” She considers Arya for a moment, something almost like regret in her eyes. just “We could have been great allies, you and I. I think we have much in common.”

“We have nothing in common,” Arya spits before she can stop herself. Daenerys hums, folding her hands together.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not,” she says. “It doesn’t matter now though.” She turns, as if to walk away, then stops and glances back at Arya once more. “I hope Jon Snow will think twice about betraying me next time.”

Then she walks back to the main camp, leaving Arya alone but for the four Unsullied guarding her. She pulls as hard as she can against her restraints, letting out a scream of frustration as she only succeeds in tightening them. She closes her eyes and leans her head back against the pillar in despair, her heart sinking to her stomach as she thinks of what her failure has cost.

Arya has not feared Death for a long time. She does not want to die, but if she must then she refuses to be afraid. But she knows that Daenerys will not allow Jon or Gendry to go unpunished for their hand in this plot, that she may well kill them alongside her, which is what truly frightens Arya.

And she is powerless to stop it.


	5. trial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something is wrong.
> 
> Gendry can feel it in his gut; it's been hours since dawn broke, and yet there's still no sign of Arya. He keeps scanning frantically for a flash of brown hair and smirking grey eyes, but none appear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up folks, the major character death warning comes in here. Hopefully you won't kill me for it... And I promise again, it's definitely not Arya or Gendry :-)
> 
> Sorry for the late update. It's been so hot recently that I haven't actually been able to use my laptop lmao. Thanks climate change.

Something is wrong.

Gendry can feel it in his gut; it’s been hours since dawn broke, and yet there is still no word for better or for worse. Perhaps he is worrying for nothing - it can hardly be easy to kill a queen and escape unnoticed, but somehow he knows that it should not be taking this long.

He’s not the only one worried either. Jon Snow has been sat at the head of the map table for the past hour, hands steepled, brooding silently, whilst Davos keeps pacing up and down the tent. For Gendry’s part, he’s stood at the tent entrance watching everyone who goes by, his hands twitching at his sides. He desperately wishes for something to do, preferably involving a hammer and steel, for he finds that there’s nothing that takes his mind away from problems like the forge. But his place is here and, besides, the Street of Steel is gone, now. Not that he’d be able to get anywhere near it anyway, even if he wanted to.

He stifles a yawn behind his hand; he’d slept fitfully the night before and woken when it was still black outside, although Arya was gone by that point. As soon as the sun broke over the horizon, he’d called his lords bannermen around him, instructing them to be ready, that battle could break out at any moment. They’d questioned him of course, demanding to know why, but Gendry isn’t so stupid; he knew to tell them would jeopardise everything.

The lords had shouted and argued, but Gendry had refused to tell them more than he already had, so they soon left, dissatisfied, but promising to do as he’d asked. He has half a mind to go back and make sure they have, because he can’t shake the feeling that, whether Arya kills Daenerys or not, there’ll almost certainly be some fighting to deal with.

But it is a long walk back to his own camp, and leaving would risk missing Arya’s return. So he remains.

The air inside the tent grows suffocating after a time, thick and tense, so Gendry decides to step outside, although he makes sure not to stray too far. In truth, it’s not much better; even on the edge of winter, King’s Landing is still uncomfortably warm, and the stench of death lingers on the wind, but Gendry thinks anywhere would be better than inside that tent. He takes one breath, then another, tries to steady the nerves in his stomach, all the while watching for a flash of brown hair and smirking, steel-grey eyes.

There’s still no sign of her, though, and he’s almost despairing of all hope when Davos comes and joins him.

“I saw her, you know,” Davos says after a beat. Gendry turns and stares at him, daring to hope for a moment.

“What? When?”

“During the night,” he clarifies, and Gendry’s heart sinks. “She was going to meet Jon. Strange, though, I don’t recall your lot being anywhere near that stinking pile of corpses.”

Gendry’s eyes blow wide and he opens his mouth to explain, but the words won’t come. Davos just shakes his head and sighs.

“No need to explain yourself to me, lad. But you’re going to have to be a lot more subtle if you don’t want Jon finding out.” He turns and looks back towards the tent, where Jon still sits brooding. “He’s got a lot on his mind right now, which I’ll wager is why he hasn’t noticed anything. But believe you me, he won’t like it when he does.”

Gendry knows what Davos says is true, but he can’t stop himself from arguing the case. “Why? He said it himself, our families have been friends for years, why shouldn’t we look to cement that?”

“The last time a Baratheon and a Stark were to be wed, Jon’s father lost his head,” Davos reminds him. Gendry goes to argue again, but Davos holds up a hand. “And I know that wouldn’t happen again, and I can gather that the feelings are mutual, but the Starks protect their own. They’re wary of outsiders, even friendly ones.”

“So you’re saying there’s no hope,” Gendry surmises bitterly.

“That’s not what I said. I only mean that you’ll have to go about it properly, that’s all.”

Gendry sighs and shakes his head. “No,” he says. “She’s already told me as much, anyway.”

“Oh.” Then, “Well, I don’t think you need worry about her, in any case. I saw her during the battle at Winterfell; I’ve never seen a man fight like she does. Or a woman, for that matter.”

“That’s true enough,” Gendry admits. He’s barely ever seen Arya fight, truth be told, but she had killed the Night King, who had been protected by all his Walkers. Surely Daenerys Targaryen should be easy after that.

“We ought to go back,” Davos says, and Gendry agrees, following the old man back to the command tent. Jon is still in the exact same position as when Gendry left, and he doesn’t react when they enter. Gendry feels a pang of sympathy for him; it is likely even harder on Jon than it is on himself, knowing that Arya might be in danger and being able to do nothing. He goes to speak, but he’s barely thought of the words before the flap of the tent is opened again and a group of three Unsullied enter.

“The Queen demands the presence of Jon Snow and Gendry Baratheon,” one says, not looking at either of them. Gendry exchanges a fearful glance with Jon, but he knows they have no choice but to follow. He manages to grab his hammer on the way out; he’s under no illusion they’ll be allowed to keep their weapons when they reach Daenerys, but the weight of it at his side is comforting.

They’re led through the camp, right into the ruins of King’s Landing, and Gendry can’t stop himself from staring in horror at the destruction. He’d known, of course, that the city was ruined, but knowing is not the same as seeing. Once, not so long ago, he had known these streets intimately, could walk them with surety and ease. Now, they are all tangled, rubble and ash coating anything that might make them recognisable. The ground cracks and crunches beneath his boots, and Gendry makes the mistake of looking down.

He is walking on a graveyard, he realises.

Eventually, they reach a clearing, with a set of steps leading to what Gendry thinks might have once been the Red Keep. Daenerys has assembled her forces, Dothraki and Unsullied both, although they are a pitiful sight. Perhaps they had once been the greatest army the world has ever seen, but those days are long gone. Winterfell and King’s Landing decimated them; Gendry’s no mathematician, but he thinks the Northern armies and his own combined would outnumber them easily.

Not that it matters. Their own men are far away, oblivious to what’s happening.

They’re taken to the top of the steps, where the Dragon Queen waits. Six Unsullied guard her back, her last remaining dragon perched on one of the broken towers, and Tyrion and Grey Worm stand by her side. Tyrion does not seem surprised to see them, but his eyes are full of dread and sadness. Gendry wonders if he’ll step in on their behalf, but he dismisses the thought. Tyrion still wears his pin, after all, and Gendry doesn’t trust a Lannister to be anything but self-serving.

It’s the Unsullied that catch his eye. There’s nothing out of the ordinary at first glance, but one of them, the one closest to Daenerys besides Grey Worm, has a queer look about him. Gendry can’t quite place why, but there’s something in his stance that feels strange. He doesn’t have time to think further on it, however, as Daenerys barks out a command and his hammer is confiscated. He turns his gaze up to her, and the sight of her chills him to the bone. This is not the same woman who legitimised him that night at Winterfell; oh, she had had a queen’s look about her even then, but it is different now. Her hair is done up in an extravagant braid, her lips turned up in a triumphant, mocking smile. She regards them both coolly, and there is no kindness in them, no love, not even when she looks at Jon.

“Dany -”

“No.” Daenerys cuts Jon off, almost glaring at him. “I am your queen, Jon Snow, you will address me as such.” A pause. “At least, I thought I was.”

“I never wanted -”

“I’m sure you didn’t. But you betrayed me anyway. Do either of you deny it?” She looks between them, challenging them to speak up, to pretend they don’t know what she’s saying. Neither of them do.

Daenerys hums, satisfied. “No. I thought not. You shall learn the price of your treachery soon enough.”

Gendry frowns; she has turned away from them, has made no move against them, and he can’t help but wonder why. Then she nods at Grey Worm, and he seizes Tyrion, dragging him forward. Gendry’s eyes widen in shock, and Tyrion looks as surprised as he feels, sputtering protests and trying unsuccessfully to fight against Grey Worm’s grip.

Grey Worm pulls the Hand’s pin from Tyrion’s chest and gives it to Daenerys, who turns it over in her palm almost thoughtfully.

“Tyrion of the House Lannister, you stand accused of treason and conspiracy to murder your queen,” she says. “Do you have anything to say for your crimes?”

“Your Grace, I don’t -”

“You freed your brother, Jaime Lannister, and allowed him to enter the city, having planned for he and your sister to escape, thus aiding my enemies. It is only by chance that they were killed anyway.

“You later conspired with Arya Stark, Jon Snow and Gendry Baratheon to murder me, your queen. Do you deny these crimes?”

Tyrion lifts his chin and stares into Daenerys’s eyes. Gendry realises that he knows he is doomed whether he denies it or not. “I did what I thought was right, Your Grace,” he says, almost spitting the words.

Daenerys smirks, satisfied, and nods to her Unsullied. Someone grabs Gendry’s shoulders and he is pulled back, until an area roughly five feet in diameter is cleared around Tyrion.

“Lord Tyrion Lannister, I, Daenerys of the House Targaryen, First of My Name, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons, sentence you to die.” There’s a pause, a breath in which Tyrion opens his mouth, perhaps to try and talk his way out of death, as he has likely done many times in the past.

Then, “ _Dracarys,_ ” and Tyrion Lannister is no more.

Even as far away as he is, the heat from the dragonfire sears Gendry’s skin, and he fears that he might die with Tyrion. But when the flames clear, he is still standing, and Tyrion is nothing but a pile of ash.

Gendry stares at the spot where Tyrion had stood just a moment ago, as a breeze blows past and stirs the ashes, scattering some into the city. Alive, Tyrion had been one of the most powerful men in the country, yet in death, he was indistinguishable from the lowest of the smallfolk.

 _Valar morghulis,_ he remembers, something Arya had once said during their time on the road together. Gendry shudders, then he and Jon are pulled in front of Daenerys once more, this time forced to their knees on the steps. The dragon rears up behind her and roars, Gendry flinching in anticipation of another burst of flames. But they don’t come.

“I was a fool to think I could trust a Lannister,” Daenerys says. “A fool to think I could trust anyone, so it seems.” She sighs, as though in regret, but the steel and cold satisfaction in her eyes betray her. “I do not want war with the North. Or anywhere, for that matter. But I cannot let treason go unpunished.”

Gendry’s eyes follow her as she paces in front of them. She won’t burn them, that much he is certain of; had she wanted to, she would have done it by now. Even so, she is still holding Tyrion’s pin, he notices, and the sight of it - the memory of what just happened - weighs heavily on his mind. He may not burn, but he’s still not counting on making it out alive.

“I strip you of all titles and lands you may currently hold claim to,” she declares. “Any men you brought here with you will be allowed to return safely to their homes, with their queen’s thanks for helping me win my throne. You shall live in exile, and will return to Westeros on pain of death. Furthermore, before you leave here, I shall take something from each of you, so that you will never again think of plotting against me.”

She surveys them again, as though still debating whether or not to just kill them. Eventually, though, she sighs and purses her lips.

“I have shown you mercy today. You would do well to remember that.”

Daenerys steps back, and her place is taken by Grey Worm, who eyes the two of them with disgust and hatred. He slides his dagger out of its sheath, and Gendry suddenly understands what Daenerys meant by _taking_ something of theirs. He looks at Jon, wide-eyed, but he is just staring at Daenerys, and she at him. There seems to be a wordless conversation passing between them, but it only lasts a moment before she turns away from him, motioning to the Unsullied to seize them both. Jon’s face falls and his whole body slumps, as though he’s given up fighting.

Gendry hasn’t though, and he struggles as one of the Unsullied roughly grabs him and tries to force him towards Grey Worm. He manages to throw the first one off him, but then more surround him, pinning his arms tightly behind his back, a knife at his throat. He sucks in a harsh breath, ready to try one last time, even if it kills him. He wouldn’t mind that so badly, he thinks, not now that he knows Arya is likely dead already. Surely, if she weren’t, Daenerys would have had her up here with them, to watch this mummer’s farce of a trial.

But just as he makes to fight again, one of the Unsullied, the strange-looking one Gendry had noticed earlier, moves forward and grabs Daenerys, holding his knife to her neck. The men holding Jon and Gendry drop them, instead pointing their weapons at their brother-turned-traitor. Gendry looks up at him in astonishment; he’d moved quicker than anyone he’s ever seen before. That is, anyone, except…

His eyes widen as the truth dawns on him, and he almost laughs in relief. At that same moment, as if in response to his realisation, the Unsullied reaches up and unmasks himself, revealing Arya’s face underneath. She smirks and digs her blade into Daenerys’s neck, just enough to draw a thin trickle of blood, and all hell explodes around them.


	6. fire and blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As a girl, Arya had dreamed of dragons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: is terrible at writing battle scenes
> 
> also me: writes an entire chapter that is basically all battle
> 
> So... Apologies for the long wait. It's been a crazy few months what with moving to university etc and, as mentioned, I'm not particularly good at battles. Nevertheless, it is done, for better or for worse. I hope you guys enjoy!

As a girl, Arya had dreamed of dragons.

She had laughed at Sansa, with her Florians and Jonquils, and her kind princes and sweet maids. She had thought those songs stupid, and Sansa even more so for believing in them. Arya had preferred tales of dragons and their riders, of Vhagar and Meraxes and Balerion - _real_ stories, as she would tell Sansa. Oh, it was true enough that Arya hated the histories Maester Luwin would teach them, but Old Nan’s stories were different.

As a girl, Arya had believed the Targaryens gone, and their dragons before them. So when Daenerys Targaryen arrived with her dragons in tow, some part of Arya had felt half a girl again, only this time the stories were real.

At least, they had been, for a time.

She’d thought, once, that she and Sansa were almost too different to be sisters at all. She knows now that they are more similar than she ever cared to know as a girl; indeed, she had been just as foolish, believing in the stories of dragons just as Sansa had once believed that her life would be like a song.

She tugs again at the ropes holding her to the post, scowling when they still won’t move. It had been deftly done, Arya can admit that; she can even admit some small amount of respect for the other woman, but she knows that, now more than ever, she has to get free and finish what she started. For Jon’s sake, and for Gendry’s, and for everyone they’ve dragged into this with them. More than anything, Arya does not want to see more destruction.

She twists experimentally, trying to find a weak spot in the rope. It takes a while - longer than Arya wanted - but eventually she finds it. It’s tiny, only just loose enough for her to maneuver her wrist, but it’s enough. She wriggles her hand, wincing as the rope burns her skin, but she soon frees her left hand. Arya allows herself a small smile before getting to work on the rest of the ropes, working as quietly as she is able to avoid drawing attention from the guards. It’s too easy, really; Daenerys left just four men, and none of them so much as twitch as Arya works on her bonds.

She holds the ropes behind her back, not letting them fall away, and shouts out to the Unsullied guards.

“Help!” she calls, trying to make her voice sound as small and weak as possible. Then, when they don’t respond, “Please, I’m injured, help me.”

One of them turns and strides over to her, assessing her with a disinterested eye. “You lie,” he says, then makes to go.

“No,” she gasps. “Please.”

The Unsullied glares, but crouches down to her level. _Quick as a snake,_ Arya remembers, and she strikes, kicking the soldier backwards and snatching his shortsword from his belt. She leaps to her feet and slits his throat before he can rise, turning her attention to the other three guards.

Arya backs away, leading them further from the main camp, not wanting to risk drawing Daenerys’s notice. The three catch up with her, so she darts to the right and manages to get one in the side, spinning away from his sword as he slashes at her. The two Unsullied left evade her, and she longs for Needle; small as it is, the reach is far greater than the shortsword’s, and it is much lighter.

One of the Unsullied levels his speak at her and thrusts it towards her heart, but Arya darts away grabbing onto the shaft and yanking it towards her. It’s not enough to loosen the Unsullied’s grip on it, but he’s off-balance for a second, long enough for Arya to impale him on her sword. She holds onto his spear when he falls and spins to face the last man, catching his spear on hers. They trade blows, the Unsullied never seeming to tire even as Arya begins to feel an ache in her arm from the force of weapons crashing together.

She ducks a movement that would have taken her head off and sweeps her spear underneath his legs, knocking him to the ground, but he recovers almost instantly, fighting his way back to his feet. Arya yells in frustration as her spear clatters away, but grabs her sword and keeps moving; she has faced worse odds before and won, after all.

 _A water dancer sees with all her senses,_ Syrio reminds her, so she focuses, and Arya _sees_.

She sees how the Unsullied seems to favour his right side, how, occasionally, just for the briefest second, he leaves himself open. She sees where he is weakest, and where he keeps closely guarded. And she sees him move his spear just so, at an angle that would take her through the heart if she let it.

Arya spins away from him at the last second, catching his spear in her free hand as it strikes at her. And in that slight moment of weakness, she strikes, thrusting her sword into his chest. Blood runs over his lips as he coughs once, then slides to the ground. Arya pushes her hair out of her eyes and breathes hard, surveying the three bodies. An idea comes to her and she grins, kneeling down beside the first one to die. His armour is mostly unscathed, the only mark of what has happened a dark patch where his blood soaked through. She considers her shortsword, pursing her lips; a knife would be better suited to her purposes, but she doesn’t have the time to search for one, so she’ll have to make do.

Arya leans close to the body, and makes the first cut.

* * *

She’s tempted, when she’s done, to go back to Jon’s camp - or perhaps even Gendry’s - to warn them of what might be coming. Even more tempted to look for her weapons; she feels almost naked without Needle or her dagger at her belt. But there is no time - she can see Daenerys beginning to mobilise her men for whatever she has planned for Jon and Gendry. Arya feels a flash of hatred for her, and wants nothing more but to march over and kill her now, but that would be folly.

Instead, she waits until Daenerys has turned away from a group of Dothraki and hurries over, bowing before her.

“My Queen,” she says. “This one would ask the honour of guarding you this day.”

Daenerys barely glances at her before nodding and moving on. Arya frowns in confusion; she had expected some questions at least, but instead Daenerys seemed distracted, troubled, even.

 _She does not want to hurt Jon,_ Arya realises eventually. Unbidden, she feels a pang of sympathy for Daenerys. It can’t be easy to have to condemn someone you once loved, Arya had seen that much from Jon, when they first came up with their fools’ plan.

 _But,_ she reminds herself. _She slaughtered this city._ If anyone deserves death, it is Daenerys Targaryen.

She sticks close to Daenerys as they are led into the city, right up to the ruins of the Red Keep. The stench of death still hangs heavy in the air, and it sickens Arya to see all the destruction that had been wrought only a few days prior. It had been one thing living through it; quite another seeing it in the light of a new day. Her hand twitches around her spear, but she waits. It would not do to get taken again.

She remains impassive through all of Daenerys’s speeches and proclamations; the Queen is too far away from her, if nothing else. She stays her hand during Tyrion Lannister’s execution; she has no cause to dislike the man - other than his name being Lannister - but she does not especially like him, either, and one less Lannister in the world is always a good thing.

She even forces herself to remain still during Jon and Gendry’s sham of a trial, much as she wishes she could do otherwise. It is only when Daenerys finally steps back that Arya is close enough to grab her. She holds a knife to the Dragon Queen’s throat and smiles as she pulls off her mask, revelling in the looks of shock and surprise on the faces all around her. Then she pushes the knife a little harder into Daenerys’s neck, and watches as the blood beads around the blade, and the air is filled with fury.

Daenerys’s forces scream in unison, but all Arya can hear is the pounding of her own how and the whisper of Daenerys’s breath.

“You’ll never win this fight,” the Dragon Queen hisses. There are but three of you, and my army will defend me to the last.”

Arya scans the scene. Jon and Gendry are being held at knifepoint, and the remainder of her pitiful army have begun the charge up the steps. Then a movement close behind them catches her eye, and she smirks triumphantly.

“You’re wrong,” she says. “Your soldiers are brave, but so are we. And there are far more of us than there are of you”

Daenerys’s eyes widen as hundreds of North-men and Stormlanders come bursting into the clearing. The Unsullied and Dothraki turn to meet them, but there is no time to form a shield wall before they are set upon, and their line breaks instantly. The two men holding Jon and Gendry are distracted; they take the brief reprieve to break free and steal their weapons back. Arya tightens her hold on the Dragon Queen, and leans in close.

 _“Valar Morghulis,”_ she whispers, and opens a red smile across Daenerys Targaryen’s throat.

* * *

Arya deposits the body unceremoniously on the ground, surveying the carnage around her with some small amount of satisfaction. She hadn’t wanted this, not when she’d first met Daenerys - not even after that, when they began their march to King’s Landing. But Arya had never wanted much of what had happened in her life, and at least this had been her choice.

She grabs her spear from where it had fallen when she’d grabbed Daenerys, sliding the sword back into its sheath. She much prefers fighting with the spear, she’d found; it is much more familiar in her hands than the short sword, and it has a far better reach. She sweeps it up in a wide arc, scratching the tunic of the nearest Unsullied. She screams, stabbing forward, but at the same moment, there’s a piercing shriek from above, and all the Unsullied scatter, retreating down the steps.

The shriek comes again, and Arya’s eyes widen as she looks up, only to see the dragon glaring down at her. Its mouth opens and her blood runs cold as she sees a golden glow beginning to build in its throat. Her entire body screams at her to move, but she’s frozen in place, staring into her certain death.

Then the dragon roars, and something heavy crashes into Arya, knocking her aside just as the dragon’s flame blackens the stone she’d been standing on just seconds earlier. There’s still a weight on top of her, Gendry’s face coming into focus as her vision clears. He smiles in obvious relief, but a movement to the left catches Arya’s attention and she shoves Gendry off her, rolling to the side. The Unsullied’s spear-point sparks off the stone, and Arya shoves her own spear into his stomach, the point going right through him. She yanks it out and turns back to the dragon, a great wind almost knocking her over as it ascends into flight, Daenerys’s limp body clutched in its talons. She expects it to try and kill her again, but it just sends another blast of flame over their heads, and flies away, soon becoming nothing more than a speck on the horizon. Arya notices Jon watching it go, but he cannot afford the distraction for long - and neither can she.

Arya twirls her spear, blocking and parrying and stabbing as she presses her way down the steps to join the rest of their forces. It’s slow going, but there are fewer men up here than below, so she manages to fend them off, alongside Jon and Gendry. Once, her spear is twisted out of her hands, but she quickly grabs her sword and steps inside the man’s reach, twisting it into his chest. She pulls it out and bends to retrieve the spear slamming it upwards into another man’s gut as she does so.

She occasionally glances over to the main battle as she moves, though she never allows herself more than a second. To be distracted in a fight is to sign your own death warrant, she knows this. From what she can tell, though, the two sides seem equally matched; it is true that they have more men, but her father always used to say that discipline beats numbers every time. The Unsullied are the most disciplined army in the world, or so they say, never breaking rank or running from a fight. But the Dothraki are anything but disciplined, and there are plenty of horse among the Northerners and Stormlanders, too. Arya briefly wonders what this means for them all, but strategy and army tactics have never been her forte. She pulls her mind and her gaze away from them, returning her attention to the next soldier in line.

It seems like an age, and yet not so long at all, until they have the remainder of Daenerys’s forces penned in on all sides. The fighting has dwindled to a stalemate; they refuse to surrender, but there is little hope of them somehow managing to fight their way out. The Unsullied have formed a protective shield-wall around their circle, and the few remaining Dothraki appear ready to continue the battle at any moment, despite their horses having been cut from under them. Nevertheless, the wall around them is at least three men deep at every point; it is hopeless.

A minute or two of tense silence goes by before Jon speaks up. “Grey Worm!” he shouts, moving to face the other commander. “Enough!”

“No,” Grey Worm growls. “Your murdered our Queen. It will not be enough until we have killed every single one of you.”

“You can’t win,” Jon pleads. “Surely you can see that.”

“Then we will die with honour.” Grey Worm tightens his grip on his spear and shouts something in High Valyrian. The rest of the Unsullied follow his lead, lowering their spears and jabbing outwards. It’s an effective tactic, but the Northerners are able to move back, out of reach, so it only has limited success. The Unsullied have to chase them as they move outwards, leaving gaps in their line, which only weakens their defence. Arya slips between two of them, ducking under a spear and thrusting her sword through one’s back, quickly turning on the other before he can attack her.

It is over not long after. Grey Worm still stands defiant, but with several swords at his throat, he has no other option. Arya feels nothing as she watches them be stripped of their weapons and taken away, nothing as she surveys the bodies of the dead, Northern, Stormlander, and Essosi alike. She’s heard thousands of stories of the strength of the Unsullied, the wildness of the Dothraki.

But they were men, in the end.

Just like Daenerys.

Just like the Night King.

And all men must die.

* * *

She goes to find Jon, later, once it is all done and the sun is almost set once more. He’s sat on a pile of rubble, far from the main camp, just staring down at the ashes that sift softly in the breeze. He doesn’t look up when she arrives, but she knows that he’s seen her.

“I’m sorry,” she says eventually, and she means it. Not sorry for killing Daenerys, she never will be, but sorry for what she’s done to Jon. As children, he was always her favourite - over Robb, Bran, Sansa, _everyone_ \- because he was always there for her. Jon was the one to steal her breeches and a wooden sword so she could play knights with him like the boys did. He was the one she would go to when Sansa made her angry, or Septa Mordane punished her again for showing up to lessons covered in mud. He was the one who never told her she should be better - a better lady, a better daughter, a better person.

Sometimes, she had felt as though Jon was the only one she had in the world, untrue as it might have been. And she thinks she might have just taken any chance of happiness away from him.

“I wish…” she starts, then trails off, unsure how to tell him what she means.

But Jon understands anyway. “Me too,” he says, turning his gaze up to her. She’s surprised to see that he’s been crying - but perhaps she shouldn’t be.

“I don’t blame you, little sister. For any of it.” He smiles, though it’s a watery thing, and shifts so that there’s room for her. She sits, unsheathing Needle from her belt and holding it across her lap. She had worried that Daenerys had destroyed it, somehow, but she’d found it in her command tent, along with the dagger Bran had given her.

Jon laughs quietly when he sees it, then picks it up and runs his gloved hand down the blade. “It seems like an age ago that I gave you this.”

“It was,” Arya says, though she remembers the day clearly. It’s one of the few before-days that she does, most of them turning fuzzy or faint. She had been so distraught over Micah’s death; she can’t even remember what he looked like, now.

“And you kept it, all these years?”

“It got stolen, once, not so long after I fled this city,” she tells him. “I got it back though.”

“And the man who stole it?”

“He died.”

Jon nods once, his silence all she needs to know that he’s worked out that Polliver may not have just _died_.

“Tell me true, Arya,” he says after a while. “How did you survive all that time? I didn’t hear much at the Wall, but after Father died, they told me that you’d disappeared. No-one even heard your name until you showed up at Winterfell again.”

She hesitates before answering, but Jon deserves the truth. Sansa does, too, and she swears to herself that she’ll tell her, in time. Perhaps not the whole truth, perhaps not everything, but she’ll tell them everything she can.

So she does. She tells Jon about Yoren, how he was going to take her to Winterfell on the way to the Wall. She tells him about Gendry and Hot Pie, and the Hound and Beric. She tells him about Braavos, and the Faceless Men, and the long, long journey back home. And when she’s done, Jon hugs her, and then he talks about his own fight at the Wall.

By the time both their voices are hoarse and there’s no more telling to be done, it’s halfway through the night, and a chill is stealing through the city.

They sit in silence, watching the stars light up the sky, and Arya feels peace for the first time in a very long time. She’s not sure yet how she feels about Jon knowing the truth of her, but she doesn’t want to become No-One, not ever again. And if this is how she has to do it, then that is what she must do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter was a bit Gendrya light, but I promise I'll up it in the coming chapters! Speaking of, you may notice that my chapter count has changed. I estimate there to be three more chapters, and I'll make sure I write them soon.


	7. promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inside, part of Gendry had still believed that he was nothing more than Gendry the Bastard, a boy with no name and no consequence in the world. Now he doesn't know what he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello gang! It's been a hot minute...again. Whoops. University has been killing me I'm so ready to go back home for my Christmas break next week. Incidentally this chapter has also been killing me to write and it's ended up being the longest in this entire fic, which I hope can in some part make up for the long wait.
> 
> The last two chapters should be much easier to write because I have already planned them out and know what is going to happen. I'm really excited to share them with you!

The world feels so still. When Arya killed Daenerys, it seemed as though everyone let out a huge breath, and then never took in another one. And Gendry’s no bleeding philosopher, but it’s the only way he can describe it. Something’s changed, he knows that much, but he doesn’t know what yet.

Maybe it’s that, for the first time since he left this godforsaken city, there might be an end in sight. He’s been running almost his entire life; perhaps, now, that can all stop. Perhaps he can… No. He won’t think about the future, not yet. There’s still so much left to be done - this peace is as fragile as it was sudden. It can all break at any moment.

Besides, the only future he can imagine - the only happy one, anyway - is one that has already been denied to him. He doesn’t mind that, not truly. She deserves to be happy far more than he does, for all the suffering she’s endured.

Nobody seems to know what to do anymore. People just wander around, occasionally fishing something out of the ashes, staring at it for a moment, then tossing it back down like the rubbish it now is. Gendry’s taken more than one trip down the former Street of Steel, trying to work out where Mott’s shop used to be, where he had grown up. Those years are almost like a dream now. But, he reflects, they may have been the only happy ones of his life.

He’s barely seen Arya since everything happened. He could explain it by saying that she’s been cloistered away with her brother, in meetings that he’s no longer privy to. That she’s been near impossible to find because she’s Arya, and she can disappear like that. He’d be lying, though. In truth, he’s been avoiding her - staying away from meetings, finding excuses to get away whenever Davos or Jon corners him to talk. She could find him if she wanted to, he reasons, though even he knows it’s a weak argument. _He_ wants to see _her_ , it’s just… Well, it’s just that he wouldn’t know what to do. Where do they go from here? They’ve no future, he knows this already, so he ought to start getting used to that reality, much as he might not want to.

He almost trips over a tent rope, as lost in thought as he is. Would have fallen, in fact, were it not for a hand grabbing his arm and steadying him. He looks up at the man who caught him, a thanks on his lips, only to meet a pair of smirking, steel-grey eyes.

“Arya,” he gasps, almost tripping again in his scramble to get upright.

“Gendry,” she says, sounding far too nonchalant for his liking. “You should watch where you’re walking.”

“How did you know where to find me?” He’s under no impression that this was a chance meeting; there’s no such thing as chance where Arya’s concerned.

But she just rolls her eyes. “Look up, stupid.”

He does, and flushes a bright red, spotting the Stark banner flying high above a large tent. The Stark command tent, to be precise.

“Oh.”

Arya shakes her head and turns away from him, striding into the tent. “Come on,” she throws over her shoulder, and, gods help him, Gendry follows her, not even thinking about it.

Jon and Davos don’t seem surprised when Gendry trails in behind Arya. He doesn’t know what they were talking about, but the map table is covered in letters, so he guesses it was something important. Something that would probably go just fine without his input, so he still doesn’t know why Arya wanted him to come in.

“Lord Baratheon -”

Gendry winces at the title. “Just Gendry.”

Jon nods, unperturbed by the interruption. “Gendry, perhaps you could give you opinion on this.” He slides some of the parchment over to him, looking expectantly at him. Gendry clears his throat, shifting awkwardly.

“We found them in Daenerys’s tent,” Davos says, jumping in. Gendry throws a grateful look the old man’s way, receiving a nod in return. “Letters, from almost every lord and lady that’s left in the whole of Westeros.”

Jon gathers a stack of them up. “Arianne Martell.” He tosses the letter onto the table. “Yara Greyjoy, Robin Arryn, Edmure Tully, Sam Tarly, Janei Lannister. A few others. All agreeing to meet here in a few days time, by invitation of Daenerys.”

“I thought all the Lannisters were gone.” It’s hardly the right question, Gendry knows this, but he still doesn’t understand what Jon is asking him. Jon looks faintly amused.

“Most of them are. From what I can tell, Janei is Ser Kevan Lannister’s last living child, and the last Lannister heir. There’s a branch of Freys with Lannister blood, but we don’t really know how many of them are still alive, after Arya…” Jon shifts somewhat uncomfortably, clearly still unsure what to make of the fact that his sister is a trained assassin.

“Oh,” Gendry says. “Sorry, but I don’t really understand what I’m doing here. I might have a name now, but I’m still just a Flea Bottom bastard, and one who can’t even read, at that.”

“If it makes you feel any better, lad,” Davos cuts in. “So was I when Stannis made me his hand.”

Jon nods, grimacing. “I understand,” he says, though Gendry’s not sure he truly does. “You’re here because you’re one of the few allies I know I can trust. I wanted to warn you in advance, and make sure that you’re ready.”

“Ready?” And maybe Gendry is just slow, but it’s not until Davos speaks, sympathy written all over his face, that the reality of his situation finally sinks in.

“You’re the head of House Baratheon now, lad. Like it or now, you’re in this from now on.”

* * *

He trails back to his camp in something of a daze. Until that moment, part of him still hadn’t believed that he was truly someone now; inside, he still feels like Gendry the Bastard. And maybe he’d spent two weeks in Storm’s End, and maybe he’s here with an army at his back, but it’s not real. Or it wasn’t. He’s not sure what it is now.

He’s bombarded by questions as he enters the Stormland encampment, the five bannermen all having one thing or another to say to their liege lord. Gendry just keeps walking to his tent and they follow, crowding inside after him. He sighs, knowing there’s no deterring them, and turns to face them, raising an eyebrow.

“My Lord,” Selwyn Tarth starts, but he’s quickly cut off by Arstan Selmy.

“The men are becoming restless,” he says, just barely courteous. “They wish to go home.”

“Me too,” Gendry says. “But -”

“We’ve done everything you asked of us,” Selmy continues. “Even when you haven’t entrusted us with all the details of your...plan. Perhaps you might at least be as kind as to tell us when we might be leaving this city.”

Gendry feels his temper rising at Selmy’s words. He’s tried so hard these past weeks to ignore the sneers and entitlement of all these lords, because he knows that losing his temper would not bode well for him. He’s sure their contempt is well-deserved because he’s a shit lord, but he can’t help but be frustrated with it all.

He grits his teeth, and forces himself to swallow his anger. “Sorry,” he manages. “There’s going to be a meeting of the lords and ladies of the country so we probably won’t be leaving for a while. You can attend it, if you want.”

He sees Ralph Buckler’s lip beginning to curl at the suggestion that they wouldn’t be invited to such a gathering, and he thinks he really might lose it -

“Very good, my Lord,” Selmy cuts in smoothly. Buckler looks irritated at the interruption, but he doesn’t protest; even if he doesn’t care for Gendry much, it’s clear that Selwyn Tarth commands enough respect for all of them.

Gendry nods, not trusting himself to speak, and the lords take that as a dismissal, filing out of the tent. He lets out an explosive sigh once they’re all gone, slumping down into one of the chairs. He stares blankly at the table, tracing over the notches in the wood idly, and wonders when being legitimised became the worst thing that had ever happened to him.

* * *

The gathering takes place a sennight later, when the last group - the Tullys - arrive in the city. The Northern party somehow arrived first, despite being the furthest away, Lady Stark telling of how they’d left immediately after receiving the raven from Storm’s End. She regards Gendry with a sort of curious suspicion, and he feels nervous in her presence. He never saw her much at Winterfell, him being in the forge most of the time, but he knows she’s well-respected by her people, common folk and nobles alike.

“I understand I need to thank you,” she says to him, “for keeping my sister safe, and for helping Jon. My family owes you a debt.”

Gendry doesn’t know what to make of her polished words, her high-born care with the way she speaks. He believes she speaks truthfully - the Starks are a pack, Davos told him - but there’s an ice to her that he’s sure can turn dangerous if he ever becomes a threat. That is why, he supposes, her people respect her so.

“No debt, my Lady,” he manages, and she makes a curious noise, assessing him once more before turning away.

Brienne of Tarth approaches him next, Selwyn Tarth’s daughter. _Ser_ Brienne, as he’s been told. She’s dangerous too, but in a different way to Sansa; Brienne is a knight, and those Gendry can understand.

“My father says you’re not the usual sort of lord,” she tells him. Shame and anger churn in Gendry’s gut, but Brienne clearly notices, and she almost smiles at him. “He likes that, I think.”

Brienne is gone before he can say anything, and Gendry finds himself getting caught up in the flow of people heading for the dragon-pit - one of the few places left in King’s Landing that hasn’t recently been decimated. Most pay him no mind, but some cast him looks of undisguised suspicion or disdain. No doubt, word of the bastard in Storm’s End has spread. Gendry sighs and falls in with the procession, reminding himself of who, exactly, he now has to be.

* * *

Banners of every colour litter the dragon-pit, though Gendry only really recognises the grey of the Stark’s direwolf and the yellow-and-black Baratheon stag. There’s a single seat underneath the latter, and he eyes it reluctantly, even now not wanting to claim his heritage in front of all these people. He has little choice, though; all the other true nobles are already taking their places. The sight of Davos, his own onion banner placed next to Gendry’s stag, galvanises him enough to sit - Davos is of Flea Bottom too, he remembers.

Again, the stares - a man under a fish banner who he thinks must be Arya’s uncle, for all her siblings share his look, turns his nose up, whilst an olive-skinned woman in flowing silks arches an interested eyebrow. He feels uncomfortable under their gazes and looks for Arya, but she is the only one (or so it feels) not actively staring him down. The irony of that is not lost on Gendry.

Everyone seems to be sizing each other up, a tense silence falling over the arena. It’s like a duel, Gendry thinks, in which neither side wants to be the first to land a blow. Only there are far more people involved, and hopefully no-one will die.

Perhaps not the best analogy, then.

Eventually, Jon stands, albeit reluctantly.

“My lords, my ladies,” he says. “You were called to gather here by Daenerys Targaryen to discuss terms for peace in all of the Seven Kingdoms. I’m sure you are all aware by now what has recently taken place in King’s Landing, but rest assured that the goal of this gathering has not changed. I -”

There’s a snort to Gendry’s left, and a woman clad in armour with a kraken hanging behind her rises.

“Yara Greyjoy,” Davos murmurs, and Gendry’s never been more thankful for his presence.

“My brother fought for you at Winterfell,” she says, glaring furiously at the Starks. “He trusted you, he died for you. And now you repay him by murdering our queen?” She spits. “Here’s what I say to your peace.”

Jon sighs, tired. “Theon fought bravely, and my family owes him a debt that we can never repay.” He turns away from Yara and steps forward, addressing the whole pit. “But we have to work together. The wars are over, we cannot keep fighting amongst ourselves or there will be no end to this bloodshed. Too many people have died - most recently at the hands of your queen, something I regret more than anyone. We have to end it.”

Yara Greyjoy purses her lips - around her, Gendry can see several heads nodding at Jon’s words, although many others remain neutral.

“Give us the one who killed her,” she says. “Let them pay the iron price, and we will consider your peace.”

Gendry feels a flash of fear, as Jon clearly does, but Arya looks remarkably unperturbed. He doesn’t know how much of that day is common knowledge, so he doesn’t want to draw attention to her, but -

“Come on, then,” Arya says smoothly, standing and looking at Yara with a challenge in her smirk. “Let’s see who wins.”

On Arya’s sides, Jon and Sansa both try and pull her back into her seat, but she stubbornly refuses. Murmurs break out across the pit, and Yara looks ready to murder Arya then and there.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Davos stands, putting himself between the two women. “If we could refrain from killing each other in the middle of peace negotiations, I think that would be helpful.”

There’s a brief standoff, during which Gendry worries that Davos will be cut down anyway, but eventually everyone sits, Yara still glaring murderously. It’s clear that she isn’t going to let this go but, hopefully, they’ll be able to solve it without an outright murder. What can he say, he’s an optimist.

Davos nods, looking slightly surprised himself that that had worked. “Right, then. Jon’s right, we have to work together. We can’t keep doling out justice whenever and to whomever we feel like; that’s what got us into this mess in the first place.”

“Then what do you propose we do, Onion Knight?” Selwyn Tarth asks. The coolness of his tone worries Gendry; he knows they fought for separate kings during the first war, but he wonders if Davos’s station is more cause for Tarth’s contempt than his past loyalties.

Davos is unbothered by the slight. “We need a leader,” he says. “A king. Or queen.”

“We appear to be somewhat short on those,” Arya’s uncle says dryly. “Since the last one was apparently murdered.”

“There are two.” Bran’s voice cut calmly through the pit, and all heads turn to face him. Gendry feels a churning in his gut as Bran’s eyes lock onto his own. “There’s power in the blood of kings,” he says, and Gendry’s hit with the memory of the Red Woman kneeling over him, of leeches and flames, and suddenly he knows what Bran means.

“The bastard looks enough like Robert,” the Dornish woman - Arianne Martell, he guesses - says. “Who’s to say he will not rule the same?”

There’s nods and murmurs of agreement all around him, and for once Gendry is grateful for it. He doesn’t want to be king; he barely wants to be a lord anymore. Bran, when Gendry glances back to him, seems faintly amused at the entire thing, as though he knew what would happen.

“You said there were two,” Yara Greyjoy cuts in. “Not another bastard, I hope?”

“It’s his choice,” Bran says, but he’s staring directly at Jon. Subtlety, Gendry decides, is not Bran’s strong point.

Jon winces as all eyes turn to him, but before he can say anything, the man next to him laughs. It’s Arya’s uncle again; Gendry shifts his body towards Davos, who, thankfully, takes the hint.

“Edmure Tully.”

“Everyone in the Seven Kingdoms knows where he came from,” Tully says. “Putting a pretender’s crown on his head doesn’t make him any more of a king.”

“Might I remind you that you were once sworn to that pretender’s crown, Uncle,” Sansa snaps. She’s glaring at her uncle, and Gendry’s surprised to see Tully shift away from her slightly. Arya, for her part, watches her uncle coolly, but no one misses the way she moves her hand to rest on her sword hilt.

“Apologies, Niece,” Tully manages. Then, turning back to Bran, “You can’t be serious. Even Robert’s bastard has a better claim than him."

“It’s his choice,” Bran repeats.

Tully scoffs, but before he can say anything else, Jon sighs wearily and stands once more. He looks miserable, and Gendry feels sorry for him, but a bigger part of him is just relieved that no-one is looking to him for anything anymore.

“I was raised as Ned Stark’s bastard, you all know this,” he says. “It was a lie, to protect both the new peace and me; a lie which I myself only recently discovered.” Jon swallows, hesitating. “My brother speaks true. I’m no bastard, but the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, who lawfully wed after Rhaegar annulled his marriage to Elia Martell.”

Silence hangs in the air for a moment, a breath. Then, the storm.

Gendry can’t make out what anyone is saying, everyone shouting over each other to make their opinion heard. Arianne Martell looks furious, and Edmure Tully seems to find the whole thing laughable. Jon just returns to his seat, shoulders slumping in despair and defeat. Gendry wonders if he ought to say something himself, but it’s not like anyone would listen even if they could hear him.

“Friends,” Davos pleads. “Friends, please.”

But he goes unheard, too, and it’s a while longer before something like calm returns. Gendry considers it a small miracle that everyone is still alive.

“Friends,” Davos repeats, taking the opportunity. “We’re not going to solve anything by shouting at each other. We have much to discuss, and it’s going to be a whole lot harder if we decide to start fighting like children at every opportunity. Jon is telling the truth - he is the heir to the Iron Throne, and a damn good one at that.

“The men of the Night’s Watch elected him to lead them because they trusted him. The people of the North chose him as their king because they trusted him. Every decision he’s ever taken has been to protect and save his people; without him, we would all be serving under a different king entirely right now. He knows how to lead, and he knows how to do it well; he is our only option.”

From across the pit, Jon sends Davos a smile that’s probably intended to be grateful, but instead just looks pained. Another round of arguing breaks out around them, but it’s more subdued this time and Gendry can actually understand some of what’s being said. It seems like as many people agree with Davos as disagree, although if he had to guess, Gendry would say it’s more in Jon’s favour than against.

“If nothing else,” one voice says, somehow rising above the rest, “Jon Snow is our only hope of keeping the North in line.”

“No.” Jon and Sansa speak at the same time, but it is Sansa who stands, calm anger in her eyes. Everyone turns to face her, their arguments stopping abruptly at her interruption.

“The North has been subjugated and ignored for too many years,” she says, steel in her tone. “Our way of life is different to yours, and after my father’s death we swore that we would never kneel to a southern ruler again. Our people died for us to be here; we must honour their sacrifice, and the sacrifices of those who survived, by restoring the North to an independent kingdom.”

Her eyes flash dangerously, as though daring a challenge. There are none, though several men look surprised at her declaration.

“Let them,” Yara says dryly. “The Starks have caused enough trouble for the rest of us.”

There are murmurs of what Gendry thinks is agreement, by Sansa’s satisfied smirk as she returns to her seat. Arya smiles at her sister, and even Bran looks somewhat pleased.

“There is, of course, still the matter of a ruler,” Davos reminds everyone. Jon sighs heavily and leans forward in his seat.

“If you will have me as your king then I will accept,” he says, resigned. “But if you want a Targaryen king then I will have to disappoint you all. Ned Stark was the only father I ever knew and I will not turn my back on him. If you choose me to lead you, then you will have a bastard, or you will have a Stark.”

“If we’re all agreed..?” Davos asks.

Gendry glances around the pit; no-one speaks, but many are nodding, and the rest don’t raise any objections. He feels sorry for Jon, knowing that this is the last thing he wants, but Gendry is confident that he will be a good king. He meets Jon’s eyes and nods, Jon returning the gesture.

“Alright then,” Davos says. “All hail Jon Stark, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Six Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm.”

And when they all stand, their voices joining in chorus, Gendry feels that they can start breathing again.

* * *

The gathering lasts for a few hours longer, most of what is discussed going completely over Gendry’s head. He takes solace in the fact that his opinion isn’t really wanted anyway, though he does find himself receiving several questions about Storm’s End that the other lords clearly know he can’t answer. He feels himself turning red as he stumbles his way through a response, but the sight of Arya’s furious glares at the lords in question are almost enough to make up for it.

Almost.

When everything’s finally over, he goes to make his way back to his camp, needing a drink, but Arya catches his elbow before he can get away.

“I need to talk to you,” she murmurs, then strides off, not bothering to check if he’s following.

Not that she needs to; after a quick glance to see if anyone’s watching them, Gendry hurries after her, letting her lead him through King’s Landing. How she knows where she’s going, Gendry can’t understand, but he just chalks it up to Arya being Arya.

They end up sitting on the edge of the pier, legs dangling over Blackwater Bay. It almost feels like the old days, when they were nothing more than orphans on the run, and Gendry is hesitant to break the silence.

Eventually, though, Arya speaks. “I’m not staying here,” she says, staring out across the water. Gendry had already guessed as much, but he can’t help the disappointment anyway.

“You’re going north, aren’t you? To Winterfell.” He nods, looking down into his lap. “I understand. You have to be with your family.”

“I’m not going north.”

He looks at her in surprise, but she’s still focused on the horizon, like he’s not even there.

“Well, what then?”

“Bran and Sansa are leaving in a few days. I’m going with them, but not to Winterfell. I’ll have a ship waiting for me in White Harbour, I’ve already organised a crew and -”

“What do you need a ship for?” Gendry interrupts, more confused than ever. She scowls at him, annoyed, but then sighs and returns her gaze to the bay.

“What’s west of Westeros?” she asks softly.

“What?”

“Exactly,” Arya says, a satisfied smile playing at her lips. “No-one knows. I’m going to find out.”

“Arya, that’s…” _Insane,_ he means to say, but there’s something in her expression that stops him. She needs this, he realises; she needs to get away, to do something for herself without worrying about what’s around the corner. He understands, in a way. Besides, sailing to the edge of the world is hardly the most insane thing he’s heard even in the last few hours. And, if anyone can do something like this, it’s Arya.

“Do your family know?” he settles for instead.

She shakes her head. “Sansa suspects something, I think, but I haven’t told them. I wanted to tell you first.”

“Why?”

She shrugs. “Because.”

Gendry waits for her to elaborate further, but apparently she’s done. He still doesn’t understand, but he’s strangely touched by it all. “Are you going to come back?” he asks, when the silence stretches out.

“Eventually,” she replies, and Gendry can’t pretend that that doesn’t fill him with relief. “I don’t know when, though. It might be years.” She purses her lips, then shifts so that she’s facing him. “Gendry, I -”

“I love you,” he says, almost without meaning to. She blinks, shocked, but Gendry figures that this is his last opportunity to say it. “I love you. And I understand if you don’t feel the same, but I do. I’m not saying this to stop you from leaving because I know you’re going to whether I like it or not. But I needed to tell you, just in case.”

Arya looks at him in a way that reminds him of those moments before she rejected his proposal all that time ago - stunned and just a bit sympathetic. He shakes his head to get rid of the memories, and almost apologises, but then she’s kissing him soft and slow, like she loves him, too. When she pulls back, she rests a hand on his cheek and smiles.

“I’ll see you again,” she promises. “But you don’t wait around for me. You’ve got a new life now, and duties, and you deserve to be happy. Promise me.”

He nods, knowing that if he speaks she’ll know that he’s lying. Probably she knows anyway, but it’s better if they both pretend. Gendry’s not delusional; whenever Arya comes back, she’ll want to be with her family, and she’d choose them over him every time.

But, for the moment, he’ll pretend. He’ll sit with her, side by side, remembering the old times, and pretending that they can live in this moment forever. Pretending that she won’t leave him. Pretending that, as much as this is a beginning, it is also an ending.

Pretending that he can be with her, and that, someday, they can be happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do not despair! I said I would give these two the ending they deserve and that is exactly what I'm going to do! I fully support Arya going away from Westeros and being a badass explorer and perhaps on the way realising she is in love with a stupid bull-headed bastard boy from Flea Bottom. 
> 
> Two chapters to go!


	8. return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You cannot lie in front of a heart tree, they say.

It is good to see Westeros again. She did not expect to feel this way, but she has been at sea for so long, and now her heart longs for home. It is a comfort, then, to see the familiar shores of the North drawing ever closer with each breath. They’re forced to go slow, the harbour treacherous with ice; Arya suspects that she wouldn’t have been able to return sooner even if she’d wanted to, such is this winter.

It’s clear when they finally manage to land that winter is still plaguing the country, the flakes falling thicker and faster than any northern summer snow could. Even so, Arya’s never seen a winter before, but the very fact that they could land must mean that they are nearing the end now. The road to Winterfell will be hard, but they should manage it.

She tells the harbourmaster to do what he wants with the ship. It served her well in the west, but she has no use for it anymore. People need firewood these days, or someone else can go sailing if they want. She doesn’t care. He thanks her, then directs her to an inn she can stay in, and though Arya wants nothing more than to keep going, she longs for warm food and a bed.

People stare as she wanders through the city, some with respect, others simply with mild curiosity. She’d hoped that the ongoing winter and her less than ladylike appearance would help her to keep a low profile, but she supposes it was a foolish hope. Still, she cannot say the attention is all bad; she is more than grateful for the bath the innkeep has drawn for her, and the bed she is provided with. It has been all too long since she had a decent rest, and she knows she will need it for the road ahead.

It’s only natural, then, that her dreams refuse to let her be. She stands in the godswood at Winterfell, the winter chill whipping around her, sharp and hard. Snow clouds her vision, and blue eyes leer at her, too many to count. She tries to fight them, but they wink out of existence as soon as she lunges, only to reappear in another spot. Then a hand closes around her throat, lifting her off the ground, choking her and freezing her to the bone.

The Night King tighten his grip on her, his smile and bright blue eyes etched into her vision even as she starts to lose her breath and black spots appear before her eyes. She wants to struggle, but her limbs weigh her down and she’s going to die, _she’s going to die_ -

A howl splits the air and the hand around Arya’s throat disappears, dropping her to the ground. She coughs, sucking in grateful gulps of air, squinting to see her rescuer. Two large creatures loom above her, and all the breath goes out of her again.

It’s Nymeria, intelligent golden eyes studying her carefully. And next to her… Next to her stands the largest stag Arya’s ever seen. It has blue eyes, but not blue like the dead. It’s an unmistakable shade, one that could only belong to one person.

Arya struggles to her feet, reaching out - to Nymeria or to the stag, she doesn’t know. But, before she can touch either of them, they turn away, walking off into the wood side by side. Arya watches them go, her arm dropping limply back to her side. Nymeria howls once more, just as the morning sun begins to break through the storm, blinding her as it glances off the snow -

Arya wakes gasping, one arm raised to her throat. It’s cold in the room, the fire having burnt out hours ago, so she immediately goes to relight it, trying to banish the chill from her limbs. She dresses quickly and packs her belongings, heading downstairs as soon as she’s ready.

It’s still dark outside, the sun just barely on the rise, but the inkeep is in the hall anyway. Arya curses; she’d hoped to leave unnoticed, but that’s off the cards now.

“Thank you for the room,” she ventures, wincing as the innkeep startles. “Sorry.”

“I didn’t intend to survive this winter only for you to frighten me to death,” she grumbles, a hand on her chest. Then, seeming to remember who Arya is, “Beg pardon, milady. You gave me a scare, is all.”

“Sorry,” Arya repeats, hovering awkwardly. “I’ll be off, then.”

The inkeep turns to her, hands on hips. “Not on my watch you won’t, milady. It’s two days’ ride to Winterfell, and I won’t have you showing up on Her Grace’s doorstep frozen and starved to boot.” She takes Arya’s arm and steers her to the nearest table. “Now, you’ll sit there, and I’ll get you something to eat. _Then_ you might be able to think about leaving.”

Her tone brooks no argument and so, much as she wants to, Arya doesn’t argue. So she sits, and thanks the innkeep for the food, and pretends not to notice when she slips some bread and apples into her saddlebag.

“Thank you,” she says again, when she’s finally on her horse. “Thank you…”

“Jana,” the innkeep says, smiling up at Arya. “And it’s no matter, milady. Good luck.”

Arya smiles, then tugs on the reins, a strange, warm sensation settling in her chest. It was comforting, she realises, to have someone look after her. It reminds her inexplicably of her lady mother, though Jana neither looks nor sounds like Catelyn Stark. Where her mother had auburn hair, Jana has yellow; where Jana is loud, Catelyn was quiet. Still.

A pang of longing and grief hits her, so she quickly brushes away the tears that have formed in her eyes and spurs her horse on, forcing her mother from her mind.

* * *

It’s a little more than two days before she finally makes it to Winterfell, snow and wind slowing her down. It was frustrating to say the least, but all her anger melts away as soon as she spots Winterfell on the horizon. It’s changed since the last time she made this journey, but of course it has. That was before the dead destroyed it all, before they had to build it back up from scratch.

The castle is bigger now than it ever was, or so she thinks. It makes sense; now that Sansa’s queen, they would have to make provisions for a court. And yet… It’s still Winterfell. Still home.

The courtyard of the keep is bustling when she enters, only the guards at the gate recognising her for who she is. One of them ran off to find Sansa, but she didn’t stick around to wait. She sits on a stump and takes a breath, closing her eyes and letting the sounds and smells of the North surround her. It’s the same as it always was, and yet somehow so different. Hopeful, she thinks. Happy.

But she cannot stay here. People are starting to look and stare, and she knows it won’t be long before her arrival ceases to be secret. There is a place, though, where she can be at peace, and she knows that Sansa will find her there. She is the only person who would.

And find her she does. It takes longer than Arya was expecting, but in truth she is not sure how long she’s been here. Long enough to be sure that no dead are going to appear from the trees, at least.

“You could have told me you were coming,” Sansa says. “Or at least that you were back in Westeros.”

Arya shrugs, turning to face her sister. Sansa is older, but just as beautiful as she’s always been, and she wears a circlet around her head, the point fashioned into a direwolf. She looks every inch a queen, and so much like their lady mother.

“Apologies, Your Grace,” Arya says, bowing her head ever so slightly. Sansa is silent for a moment, then laughs breathlessly and hugs Arya tight.

“It is good to see you, sister,” Sansa murmurs into her hair before they separate. They stare up at the heart tree together, its bloody eyes as empty as ever, yet they seem to bore into Arya, demanding something from her. You cannot lie in front of a heart tree, they say.

Arya drops her gaze, feelings somehow guilty. She thinks of everything she’s kept from Sansa since she returned the first time, thinks of the vow she made herself long ago in King’s Landing. She has to tell her everything, she knows this, and now might perhaps be the only time she can.

“Sansa?”

Sansa turns to her, a smile on her lips that drops as soon as she sees Arya’s face. “What’s wrong?”

Arya hesitates, then tugs Sansa over to the pool. “Sit down. I need to tell you some things.”

Sansa doesn’t interrupt as Arya tells her about everything that happened, about how she became first Arry the orphan, then Weasel, Nan, No-One. How she is trying to become Arya again. And, like Jon before her, when Arya is done talking, Sansa hugs her and starts her own tale.

They stay there for a long time, until the guards Sansa posted at the entrance to the godswood come looking for her. They leave together, arms linked, but Arya spares a glance back at the tree as they do.

 _See,_ she thinks. _I did not lie._ The tree does not respond, but its eyes look a little warmer, and for a moment she sees her father in them. She hopes he would be proud of her.

* * *

A week after Arya’s arrival in Winterfell, she finds herself in Sansa’s solar after night has fallen and the castle has gone quiet. They sit around her fire, a pot of tea cooling between them as they stare into the flames.

“I expected it to look more...queenly,” Arya says eventually, craning her neck to look around the room. It’s strangely bare, for a queen’s chambers - the entire castle is, in fact. Oh, Sansa’s rooms are bigger, and the Great Hall has been expanded, but it is more or less the Winterfell she knew as a girl.

“I couldn’t bring myself to change too much,” Sansa admits. “Besides, we are Northerners, Arya. We have never had a taste for the extravagant.”

Arya shoots her a look. “You did, once.”

Sansa laughs. “True enough. But all of that was nothing, in the end. A pretty mask. Much better to lay everything as it is, then things are less complicated.”

Arya hums in agreement. She can understand that, at least.

“Do you remember our lessons with Maester Luwin?” Sansa asks after a moment. “When he taught us which House ruled where, and their castles and lords bannermen?”

“I hated those,” Arya says. “I never saw the point in any of it.”’

“You always were a poor student,” Sansa agrees, shaking her head. She sighs. “Arya… All of that, everything he taught us - it’s all gone now. We haven’t just been rebuilding Winterfell. We’ve been rebuilding the entire _world_.”

Arya looks sharply at her sister. In the glow of the fire, Sansa appears lovelier than ever, but there is something in her eyes, something sad and almost _old_. She is tired, Arya realises, and guilt churns in her stomach. Five years, she’s been gone - five years in which Sansa was alone, trying to rebuild their home whilst also ruling over a land ravaged by the worst winter in centuries.

“Sansa, I -”

“Arya.” Sansa levels her gaze at Arya, and suddenly she’s back to being the Queen in the North. “I don’t blame you for leaving. We managed. Besides, you would have hated the northern court; it is nothing like the one in King’s Landing, yet somehow just as tedious.” She purses her lips and sighs, turning back to the fire.

Arya frowns. “What is it?”

A beat passes before Sansa answers, her voice tight and carefully controlled. “The men want me to marry. I’ve been able to put them off these past years; this winter hasn’t been as long as expected, but it’s more than made up for it in how hard it’s been. Marriage should have been the furthest thing from our minds, especially after we lost contact with the south. But now it’s coming to an end.”

Her jaw clenches, and her knuckles are white on the arms of her chair. Arya wants to comfort her, but she doesn’t know what to say - actions have always served her far better than words. But, before she can say anything, Sansa shakes her head, all the anger leaving her at once.

“They’re right,” she says quietly.

“What?”

“They’re right, Arya.” Sansa’s voice is firmer this time, and now Arya really doesn’t know what to say. “The North needs an heir, and I can’t afford to put my own feelings above the survival of the kingdom.”

“What about Bran?” Arya demands, though even she knows it’s a foolish question.

“You know full well that Bran cannot have children,” Sansa says, as though reprimanding her. “Besides, what sort of king would he make?”

Arya nods, conceding the point. “Still, you don’t have to -”

“I do,” she says. “I do. And it won’t be like Joffrey or Ramsay, not this time. I’ll find someone kind, someone who won’t mind our children having my name, who can care for me and I for him.

“I don’t want to do this, Arya. But I have a duty, and I won’t neglect my people.”

Arya stares at her sister, and, in that moment, for all Sansa looks like Catelyn, she can only see their father. “Alright,” she murmurs. “I understand.” Then, “How’s Jon?”

Sansa smiles wryly, not missing the deliberate subject change. “Well, last we heard. The winds became too harsh for ravens three years ago, and trade was impossible not long after. But, before all that, he seemed to be doing fine. I don’t know that he’s happy, but I’m sure it will do him good to see you.”

“What do you mean?” Sansa’s right; Arya doesn’t plan to stay in the North, but she hasn’t told anyone about that yet. Unless… “Bran told you, didn’t he?”

“He didn’t need to,” Sansa says, smile growing. “I never expected you to stay, Arya; this isn’t your home anymore.”

Arya falls silent, protests dying on her lips even as she thinks them. Winterfell was her home, long ago, but even if the castle hasn’t changed all that much, she has. She’d thought, after her return from Braavos, that she could learn to live here again, and she’d almost made it work, for a time. But then the dead came, and tore the last remnant of her childhood to rubble, and she knew coming back was impossible. And…

And Gendry. Stupid, bull-headed Gendry. When she’d gone to him that first night, she hadn’t expected any of this. She’d just wanted to lie with someone she knew, someone she trusted, before she died. But then she hadn’t. And neither had he.

 _Gods_ , it’s all such a fucking mess. She barely understands these feelings, unexpected as they are. All she knows is he makes her feel safe, and that’s worth a lot these days.

Sansa clears her throat, smiling knowingly at her. “Do you think Jon was the only person I wrote to?”

Arya flushes, refusing to look at her sister, but Sansa is undeterred.

“As far as I know, he remains unwed, and his councillors are apparently just as frustrated over it as mine,” she says, as calmly as if they were discussing the weather. “That was a long time ago, of course, but something tells me that his situation has not changed.”

Arya scowls at her, but Sansa just laughs before getting a sincere look in her eyes. “I understand, sister,” she says, laying a hand on Arya’s arm. “I hope he makes you happy.”

Sansa’s gaze is unrelenting, horribly open and honest, and Arya shifts uncomfortably. She looks pointedly at her arm and, eventually, Sansa gets the hint, rolling her eyes and releasing Arya.

“There’s something I wanted to ask you before you leave,” she says. “I know you’ve been training with Brienne, and she agrees with me - well, in truth it was more her idea than mine, but -”

“What is it?” Arya interrupts. Sansa shoots her a look, but continues after a brief pause.

“She wants to knight you. And I agree with her.”

Arya’s eyes widen, and she stares at Sansa in shock. “Sansa, I, I don’t, we don’t have knights in the North.”

Sansa raises an eyebrow. “But you’re not going to be in the North, are you?”

“No, but -”

“Arya, you deserve this. You’re the only fighter I know who can even _match_ Brienne, let alone beat her, and I know you’ve done that so don’t try and pretend.”

“What about the men?” Arya challenges. Men, she’s found, tend to have something to say when a woman finds her own way in this world.

“Brienne is commander of my Queensguard,” Sansa reminds her. “Jonelle Cerwyn is one of my closest advisors. _You_ saved us all. The North remembers, Arya.”

Arya swallows, then looks back at Sansa and nods, pride blooming in her chest. “Alright. Thank you.”

Sansa beams. “I’ll have preparations done. There’ll be a feast - which you _will_ attend, Arya - and I’ll get the bards to sing your song.”

“My _what_?”

“ _‘Lightbringer’_ , I believe it’s called,” Sansa says, clearly amused by the horror on Arya’s face. “You’ve been away too long, Arya, we’ve all got songs now, although yours is a particular favourite of any bards who wander this way.”

“You must love that.”

“It does get tedious,” Sansa admits, “but I’m not jealous, if that’s what you’re thinking. I would have been when we were children, but those things aren’t important anymore.”

Arya hums in response, thinking on it all. She had often played at being a knight when she was young, Jon and Robb humouring her even after Mother told them not to encourage her. She had never thought that she might actually become one, though. And now… Well. The world had changed indeed.

The fire sputters, and Arya reaches to toss another log on, but Sansa catches her arm. “Leave it. We ought to retire; it’s getting late.”

Arya nods and stands. “My Queen,” she mocks, laughing when Sansa rolls her eyes. She loves her sister, loves Winterfell, but she won’t find Arya Stark here. And, for the first time, she thinks she knows where she will.

* * *

Arya kneels before the heart tree, head bowed, as Brienne places the flat of her sword on her shoulder.

“Arya Stark, do you swear before the eyes of gods and men to defend those who cannot defend themselves, to protect all people, to fight bravely when needed and do such other tasks as are laid upon you, however hard or humble or dangerous they may be?”

She breathes in once and looks into the eyes of the heart tree. “I swear.”

Brienne slides her sword back into her sheath. “Then arise, Ser Arya, a knight of Westeros.”

Arya rises, her heart beating hard in her chest. Sansa and Bran stand witness, alongside a small gathering of lords and ladies who happened to be at Winterfell.

“Ser Arya!” one of them shouts, sword raised to the heavens. “Lightbringer!”

The others take up the chant, their voices blurring together as one. Arya looks over at Sansa and Bran - he smiles at her, something akin to pride on his face, and Sansa has tears in her eyes, though Arya knows that she won’t let them fall in front of her people. Brienne claps her on the shoulder.

“Congratulations,” she says. “I’m honoured to have known you.”

Arya nods at her. “Likewise.”

As the chants die down, Sansa begins to lead their little group back to the keep. Arya lingers a moment; she has promised to go to the feast, but there is something she must do first.

She kneels, and places a hand in the snow, feeling the cold even through her gloves. The heart tree watches her as she closes her eyes and remembers.

She remembers summer snows, playing with her brothers and sister even as they risked Mother’s wrath.

She remembers practicing archery in secret, and the looks on the boys’ faces when she shot Bran’s target before he could.

She remembers a girl named Arya Stark, who once lived a life here, and the death of that life.

Winterfell was her home, once, but nothing can bring back her childhood. This place is where the past lies; the future is a long way south, and she knows she has to get there. So she spares one last glance at the heart tree, breathes in the crisp Northern air, and lets go, feeling lighter than she has in years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The oath Arya swears was pretty much copied from the ASOIAF wiki, except I changed 'to protect all women and children' to 'people' and got rid of bits about obeying a liege lord and king etc.
> 
> One chapter to go!


	9. home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five years after the world almost ended, Gendry is woken up by a knocking on his door, and an all too familiar woman in his dining hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is folks, the long-awaited final chapter! I'll save my thanks for the end, but I just want to say what an experience it has been to write this. It's the second of two multi-chapters I've ever written in my entire fic writing journey, the first being the first fic I ever wrote just over five years ago. I've loved every second of writing this, challenging though it has been, and I hope you have enjoyed it as much as me!

Five years after the world nearly ended, Gendry is woken by a loud knocking at the door and the maester’s incoherent mumbling.

“C’min,” he manages, just about pulling himself into a sitting position before the maester walks in.

“My lord.” The maester ducks his head in deference, though Gendry’s told him a thousand times that it’s not necessary. “There’s a woman demanding to see you. The maids found her in the dining hall; they say she won’t leave until she sees you.”

Gendry squints outside; it’s barely dawn, well before half the castle would be up. “Well, who is she?” he asks. “And how did she get in? Come to that, why haven’t the guards done anything?”

The maester winces. “She...threatened the guards, my Lord. She didn’t give a name, either, but she said you’d know who she is if we told you this.”

“She’s right,” Gendry says grimly. Only one person he knows would - or could - do something like this. It’s been five years without any word of her, and yet he’s somehow not surprised that she’s currently sat in his dining hall; he thinks he might have lost the ability to be surprised by her long ago.

“Let her be,” he instructs the maester. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

The maester splutters his protests, but Gendry just arches an eyebrow at him and he sighs. He’s more than used to Gendry’s strange style of lordship by now - though what exactly that style is, Gendry himself doesn’t know. Nothing’s burning yet though, so he supposes it’s working well enough.

He pulls on his clothes as quickly as he is able, cursing as his fingers fumble the fastenings of his doublet. He hates these fancy clothes, though he knows his are simpler than most highborns’; when he’d first arrived here, he’d been forced to wear whatever Renly Baratheon had left behind, which had caused all sorts of problems.

He’s done eventually, and a sort of nervousness sets in as he makes his way down to the hall. He’s thought about her more often than he cares to admit - nearly every day, in fact - and he can’t help but wonder now how these years have changed her. Whether she found whatever she was looking for in the west. Whether she’ll stay, or sail off, never to be seen in Westeros again.

There are guards scattered around the hall when he enters, and the maids who found her stand in a corner with his maester. He came in through the back, so all he can see of her is a pair of booted feet resting on the table. It’s enough, though, to know that it’s truly Arya, any lingering doubts dispelled as the memories of her come rushing back.

It’s enough to finally kick him into action, clearing his throat. “You know, I normally like to know when I’m going to be having guests.”

She doesn’t say anything.

“How did you get in? I have guards -”

“Shit guards,” she interrupts, and it’s _her_. Gendry has to fight to keep a grin off his face, even as his guards twitch at the insult. He rounds the table and meets her eyes, relief bubbling up in him as he sees that she’s okay. Better than okay, really.

Beautiful.

Then he notices the half-eaten apple in her hand, and the remnants of his breakfast on the table. “Make yourself at home,” he says wryly, quirking an eyebrow.

Arya stiffens at that, though only for a moment, recovering quickly enough that Gendry all but doubts it ever happened. She shrugs and tosses the apple onto the table, standing and sizing him up, and his heart seems to skip a beat in his chest.

“You look good,” she pronounces eventually. “My lord.”

He grins. “As do you, m’lady.”

“I’m not a lady,” she protests, oddly sincere, but Gendry barely gives it a thought as a new idea pops into his head.

“No, of course not.” He bends into a half-bow. “Princess.”

She shoves him then and, bent over as he is, he almost falls flat on his arse in front of half his household. But she’s still got a hand on his doublet, and she manages to haul him upright before that.

“Stupid,” she mutters, but she’s smiling, and that’s all that Gendry needs. “That’s not what I meant, anyway.”

She’s got that earnest look on her face, one that Arya so very rarely wears.

He frowns, confused. “Then, what?”

“Before I came here I was at Winterfell for some weeks. Sansa - she knighted me.”

Gendry stares at her, stunned, realising all at once that he was wrong earlier; Arya Stark will never stop surprising him. He’s overwhelmingly happy for her, and it’s all he can do not to kiss her there and then. But even he has the sense to know that that wouldn’t be received well, so he settles for the next best thing and pulls her into a hug, lordly protocol be damned. She makes a sound of protest, but then her arms come around him too, and Gendry thinks that this might be the happiest moment of his life.

* * *

She slips into his chambers that night just before he gets into bed. He’s not surprised by the intrusion - far from it, really - though they’d spent practically the whole day together, and for a while it had been like the five years between them had never existed.

It’s not like that now. As she stares at him, and he at her, he can’t help but notice how much these years have changed her, changed him, changed everything between them. It’s not a bad change, he doesn’t think, but it’s different.

“I thought I told you not to wait for me,” she says. Her tone is hard, and her face gives little away, and yet there’s something quieter there too. Her arms are crossed over her chest, and it’s only then that he notices she’s missing her weapons. She’s abandoned her leathers as well, dressed in just her tunic and breeches, and Gendry realises it’s the first time he’s seen her so vulnerable, if such a word could ever be used to describe Arya. That means something, he thinks.

Without thinking, he reaches out and places a hand on her cheek, surprised when she seems to lean into the touch, if only a little.

“Apologies, m’lady,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “But I don’t take orders from you.” His eyes flick to her lips, but she’s still watching him carefully, refusing to give in just yet.

“How many?”

Gendry sighs; he would have preferred never to have this conversation, but she’s owed the truth. “Five,” he admits, searching her face for any sort of reaction.

“Why did you turn them away?”

He gapes at her, astounded. “You know why.”

She tilts her head, a small smile playing at her lips. “Remind me.”

“Because I love you,” he answers, staring into her eyes. “And no amount of highborn ladies is going to change that.”

Something changes in her expression then, and no sooner have the words left his mouth, than she’s kissing him, her hands cupping his face as his move to her waist. It’s frantic, almost hurried, but it’s not the same urgency that comes with a goodbye, with an ending.

And Gendry knows it’s dangerous to hope, but this, right now, feels awfully like a beginning.

* * *

Arya’s gone when he wakes, and he gets a sinking feeling in his stomach, wondering if she came all this way only to slip away again in the middle of the night. Then the sounds of swords clashing reaches him from the yard below, and he frowns; judging from the light in the room, it’s well past dawn, but still too early for any training, particularly at this point in winter.

He gets up and pads over to the window, and it’s a struggle to keep from laughing as he sees his master-at-arms get knocked to the dirt, likely for the second or third time given the state of his clothing. Arya extends a hand out and he grudgingly takes it, huffing before settling in to a fighting stance once more.

Neither of them notice him - or, at the very least, Arya pretends not to have noticed him - so he continues to watch them spar. It’s the first time he’s ever truly seen her fight, and he’s in complete awe of the ease with which she moves. And, gods help him, he feels himself fall just that bit further.

* * *

They fall into a pattern.

The nights are theirs, spent fucking or talking or simply just holding each other. She’s gone from bed every morning when he wakes, but he always finds her, sometimes in the lower town, sometimes training, sometimes elsewhere in the castle.

A few times, she joins him when he’s entertaining lords, some of whom sent daughters or sisters or cousins to him. None of them say anything, but they all get that look in their eyes, as though they’re wondering what Arya Stark has that their relations did not. Likely they think it comes down to a name, but Gendry’s made it clear that he cares little for politics. He’s had enough of it to last a lifetime and more, and he has no interest in playing games with his words.

Despite everything, though, despite the ease with which she’s fallen back into his life, he still can’t work out what she’s doing here. It’s been two weeks, more or less, and he’s just as clueless as the day she returned.

He doesn’t ask, though. He’s hardly in a rush for her to leave and, besides, she’ll tell him when she’s ready. He knows she will.

* * *

It happens on one of the quiet nights. Her head is resting on his chest and his arms are curled around her, pulling her as close as they can get. It’s peaceful, only the occasional dog or bird breaking the silence, and for a while, Gendry can pretend that it will be this way forever.

“I’ll always be a Stark,” she murmurs, and just like that the moment is shattered. This is the moment he’s been dreading - she’s saying goodbye, and he understands, truly he does. Her family is more important to her than anyone else; how can he begrudge her that?

“I know,” he tells her. “They’re your family, Arya, I understand.”

She’s silent for a while, then sits up suddenly, turning her body to face him. “I told you once that I could be your family.” She bites her lip and takes a steadying breath. “Those weren’t just words, Gendry. I meant them. I still do.”

It takes a moment for her words to sink in, and when they do it feels like all the breath has been stolen from him. “But…” he manages. “You turned me down.”

She punches his chest lightly, laying her head back down. “You turned me down first, stupid.”

He laughs and tightens his arms around her, wondering how this is possible. How, after all this time and all this distance, she is still here, choosing him.

“I won’t ever give up my name,” she continues. “I’ve lost too much to give it up again. And I won’t be a lady, not in anything but name. I never have been, and I never will be.”

“I know.”

“Then ask me to stay.”

The question takes him aback, but he does it, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Stay.”

“Ask me to marry you.”

His heart has risen into his throat, almost choking him with love for her, but he pushes it down as best he can. “Marry me,” he whispers, hardly daring to breathe for fear of missing her answer.

She kisses him, a yes on her lips, and for the first time in a very long time, Gendry dares to hope.

* * *

In the days leading up to their wedding, Arya tells him a story.

It is an old story, one that the songs have romanticised for years now, one that Gendry himself has heard countless times. But the tale she whispers to him in the dead of night is not a song. It is truth.

She tells him of the Hound, of a wedding bathed in blood, of years spent wandering this country alone. She tells him of a house in a foreign country where men change their faces as easily as he changes his clothes, of how she became one of them. She tells him of her scars, and how each of them came to be.

He kisses each one, and wishes he could promise to keep her safe from harm for the rest of her life. But it is not a promise Arya wants or needs, so instead he holds her close and listens as she finishes her story.

* * *

The wedding is a simple one. It takes place in the woods surrounding the castle; not quite the godswood it once was before Stannis Baratheon took a torch to it, but beautiful all the same. Sansa and Jon both insist upon being there, neither prepared to let duty or winter deny them, and Gendry is once again reminded how fiercely the Starks protect their own. It’s a daunting thing and yet, somehow, strangely comforting.

Whispers follow them constantly, right up to when they say the words among the trees. _Robert,_ they say. _Lyanna._

They were irritating, at first; Gendry has always hated being compared to his shit of a father, and half the world knows by now the lies Robert and Lyanna’s story was built on. But now, five years after all of this began, as they join hands and swear their vows, Gendry cannot bring himself to care about them.

Arya is beautiful, her hair half up, a smile reaching all the way to her eyes. She is beautiful, and she is perfect, and she is his and he is hers, for all the days and years to come.

“I love you,” he whispers, just loud enough for her to hear.

She squeezes his hands tight. “I love you,” she returns, leaning up on her toes.

And when she kisses him, soft and slow, Gendry finally knows what true happiness feels like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap! Thank you so much to everyone who has read this, whether you followed it from the start or you've only just discovered it now. Every comment, every kudos, every subscription has meant so much to me, and I'm honestly amazed at how much this has blown up. When I posted that first chapter all those months ago, I thought it would be a small two or three chapter thing that would get the standard amount of attention before I moved onto the next thing. But then I posted it, and the response was overwhelming. Even then, I never thought that I'd end up with a nine chapter long fic with so many wonderful people reading along, but here we are.
> 
> This is the most ambitious fic I've ever taken on, but believe me that this is not the end. I may be posting one or two deleted scenes from this fic that I still really want to share with you guys, and I have another project upcoming for these two which I can't say too much about, but I'm incredibly excited about it. 
> 
> Special thanks must also go to the wonderful people who beta-ed this fic, without whom it wouldn't be nearly as good. 
> 
> Thank you all, from the bottom of my heart. It's been an absolute pleasure.


End file.
